


An Intimate Act

by LateStarter58



Series: The Booze and Nosh Club: the Tom and Sarah Stories [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Books, F/M, Food, Food Porn, Recipes, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 04:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: “Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.” MFK Fisher





	1. Watercress and Potatoes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I couldn't just stop after 'The Trouble With Cameras', could I...?

**_1 large bunch of watercress_ **

**_A few salad onions or a small mild onion_ **

**_1 large or several small potatoes_ **

**_Chicken or vegetable stock – up to a litre, depending_ **

**_50g of unsalted butter, cut into cubes_ **

**_Nutmeg, salt and pepper_ **

**_Sour cream to serve…_ **

**_******_ **

I think he’s asleep. I love to see him sleep. Although, come to think of it, it’s probably me who is asleep, and dreaming. As a matter of fact, I must have been sleeping for the last few days, dreaming dreams of me and SMA. Remember me? “ _Script Editor: Sarah Blake ”_ it usually says, sometimes “ _Script Associate”,_

_I’m a nice girl I am_

but a pretty ordinary person; Acronym Woman, as my friend Raj calls me, as if it was a superpower. It isn’t. It’s laziness, P&S (pure and simple).

See?

Where was I? Oh yes, so, just to remind you, SMA = Sexiest Man Alive = Tom Hiddleston.

_Yeah._

_I KNOW_

_* screams internally *_

Now, I confess that before I met him in person, just a few days earlier, I had been a big fan of Tom’s. _Not a fangirl,_ you understand, not nuts or stalky or anything, but definitely a _fan-woman_ of the _spend-hours-scrolling-my-dash-and-reading-fanfics-because-I-follow-hundreds-of-Hiddleston-blogs-on-Tumblr_ variety. So when he showed up for my most recent FND, large as life on my doorstep with Raj, it was a shock, but an extremely welcome one. Never in a million years had I imagined, the weekend that followed that best ever FND… I never expected I would exchange messages with SMA, share a meal… And then, well… I _certainly_ never thought that I would be in his bed, under him, over him, against his bookcases; _you get the physical implications here_.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Far from it. But this is all so surreal. I rub shoulders with the famous, I work with some of them; I pass others in the corridors when I go into my office at the BBC; I exchange emails with the likes of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss occasionally. Still, those pleasant, friendly, stimulating but purely _professional_ contacts are a world away from this.

A world away from his lips on my neck; his strong, long arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his growing arousal,

_Did I mention that? Oh yessssss_

a world away from the sense of his strength I get from him, of untapped power held back by grace; from that exquisite pleasure he gives _just by breathing on me._

And not just because I have fantasised being in this man’s bed more than once. Because HE is so BLOODY GOOD.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes…

So, I guess we were asleep, because we both jerked awake, roused by the sound of a siren blaring as it passed, and I turned to look at him. He was close, so close I could have counted the golden whiskers on his upper lip. I pinched myself for the thousandth time in the last eighteen hours or so: _he was so…Hiddleston-y._ The spirit of the repressed _NOTfangirl_ might have taken me over at that moment because I found myself taking a nip at his sexy mouth. A slow smile crept across his face and he pinked up. “Did you sleep well, Sarah?”

I’m a writer – of sorts, anyway – but my stock-in-trade deserted me then. I like to think I’m the queen of the witty comeback, but he was so mesmerising… Fortunately I was saved by my stomach, which growled loudly, making us both laugh. “How about some breakfast?” the Greek god beside me asked and I looked at the clock behind him.

“More like lunch. Have you seen the time?”

After a shower that took much longer than it should have, I managed to escape his clutches and get into his kitchen. He hadn’t allowed me to help at all the night before, and being obsessed with such things I was itching to get a proper look at his cupboards and shelves. The fridge was, predictably enough, full of green stuff, and I spotted his industrial-grade blender, presumably for making those healthy smoothies I had read about. I checked around and surmised I had everything I needed. I could hear him pottering in the sitting room.

“Fancy some soup? As it’s still unseasonably cold?” I called out. Tom materialised in the doorway, a sad expression on his lovely features.

“Oh, er, unfortunately, I don’t think I have any of that.”

“What do you mean? All the ingredients are here for watercress soup.”

“Are they? Oh, right.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I never make it from scratch. Mum does, though. All the time.”

_I bet she does, me laddo. She’s a mf GODDESS._

“I’ll teach you.” He joined me, an eager look on his face. “Honestly, I think that soup is one of the easiest things to make, and if you have an onion, a potato or two and pretty much anything else, you’re all set. No need for cartons or cans!” He appeared unconvinced. “It’s quick, too. Come on, let’s get it started.” He took the onion I handed him and reached for a knife. I did my best not to stare at his fingers, or his forearms, or his neck…

Twenty minutes later we were eating it. He had half a loaf of bread lying around, and the green gloop I had rustled up was tasty as hell, though I say it myself. As I ate, trying not to be too distracted by the sexy _yum-yum_ noises the man beside me was making, I took stock. Again. Are you seeing the pattern here? Being with SMA is like living in a continuous epiphany.  It was Tuesday lunchtime: if you had asked me that time on Friday if I thought I’d be breaking bread with the man of my dreams, after we had spent many hours in bed (and on the sofa) (and in the shower) together… or that I would have been teaching him how to make watercress soup… _IN HIS KITCHEN_? Nope. Not a chance. _Dreamland. Get a grip, woman._

But my perspective was changing already. I began to go for minutes at a time just ‘being’; not focussing on ‘ _who’_ he was but on ‘ _how’_ he was, and how he made me feel. Which was bloody great.

He dropped his spoon noisily into his bowl. “I think I can safely say that is the best watercress soup I have ever tasted!” he announced, shaking his head in wonder. “I can’t believe you made it from what I had in the fridge.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Like I said, soup is soooo easy. Basic principle: onion or leek, whatever, plus some kind of starchy veg. Cook to soften in oil or butter, whatever, then you just add stock and herbs, seasoning, to taste… Green veg if you like, or… “

I felt a warm hand on my thigh, travelling north, and hot breath on my neck. “I love it when you talk about food. Do it some more.” I swear, that man is going to make me lose my mind.

_Mental note - bring – or memorise - The Joy of Cooking next time_

Tom drove me home after lunch. It was a bore, but a gal’s gotta make a living and I had scripts to work on and a deadline. We sat in the car outside my house for a while. I looked at my hands. I was extremely conscious of _who_ he was right then. Of who I was too, and I daren’t speak. I wanted to see him again, I wanted to get to know him better, and I wanted to kiss him and hold him and… So I was afraid.

“Sarah, I hope you would like to see me again.”

My head shot up. “Huh? Oh…yes… of course. I’d LOVE to… Dinner here, tomorrow?” I spoke quickly, before my brain was properly engaged. That brilliant smile was back, lighting the car and making my heart lurch.

“Time?”

So yeah. I skipped up the path, waved as he drove away, shut the door behind me and…

SCREAMED

I did Shirley MacLaine’s dance from _Sweet Charity_

_I’d love those stumblebums to see for a fact_

_The kind of top drawer, first-rate chums I attract_

up and down the stairs between my kitchen and the office… I cried a bit, too. Not because I was sad, but because it was… _he_ was… so _HIM._

Oh yeah. That’s another thing you need to know: I am prone to burst into song spontaneously, if reminded of a lyric. It’s another thing I can’t really control…

It took me several minutes of dazed walking, singing and dancing around the house to remember my phone was still off. When I looked, there were a few messages from SMA. I smiled as I read them. He must have texted at every traffic light between my house and his:

**_< S. I miss u already. Tx>_ **

**_< What r we eating?>_ **

**_< I need to know for reasons. T x>_ **

**_< I miss you more now, Sarah. T x_ **

I scrolled my other notifications and saw there were a couple of missed calls from my brother from that morning. My stomach tightened; Kev only rang me if there was trouble, or he wanted something. Reluctantly, not wanting to spoil my mood but knowing I had to, I decided to text him. It was probably nothing, but I needed to be sure.

First Tom, though. Not to seem too eager, but let him know I was, you know, _interested…_

_* hysterical laughter *_

_< Patience, Tom. No idea what we’ll have yet. It’ll be tasty. Like you ;D S xxx>_

Now, we’ve all done it, right? Sent the sext to your Mum by mistake, muddled up the convos on iMessage… I’m a fairly average idiot, and I did it then: I sent that reply to my brother instead of Tom. It got the quickest response ever from Kevin:

<WHO THE FUCK IS TOM? R U SEEING SOMEONE S? DOES MA NO?>

_Fuck_


	2. Anchovies and Capers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it real...?

**_Olive oil_ **

**_Garlic_ **

**_Anchovy fillets_ **

**_Capers_ **

**_Fresh tomatoes_ **

**_Spaghetti_ **

**_*******_ **

The next morning I woke up alone, and for the first time in my life, it didn’t sit well with me.

Not this day.

This day my heretofore comfy, luxuriously spacious bed – the one that I was always pleased to have to myself, my _private_ space - felt cold, huge, and horribly empty. How could I feel like this after one night with him? After one date, and just a few hours in his company? I lay back on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling. I let my eyes follow the cracks, imagining them to sketch out a map, as I often did. But to make that leap and fashion a story out of that mind’s-eye place, of life along the rivers and coasts I had seen up there many times before, required a level of concentration that was beyond me. At least, it was that morning. Every time I began to form the kernel of something, thoughts of Tom would wash it away.

I wanted, well, I needed to cool it all down. In my head, I mean. He was brilliant, lovely, sexy as hell and totally, ludicrously out of my league. Overnight, in lieu of sleeping much, I had thought it all through: I would enjoy the ride; make the most of what was bound to be just a fling. I would not allow myself to believe that there could be more to it than that.

_It’s already too late, stupid cow_

_Way, waaaaaay too late_

I closed my eyes and I was back there with him, just less than three miles away as the diseased London pigeon might fly (if it didn’t prefer to walk everywhere, or take the Tube), but in reality, another planet entirely. Twelve minutes from door to door, Google assured me (no traffic).

Hilarious.

More like twelve million years. I tried not to, but I thought about it all. His house, his books. His hands and smell of his neck. How his beard felt on my boobs; how his tongue felt on me. The way he kissed

_Oh dear GAAAHHHD his kisses_

and how he had looked at me. Of how we had talked and laughed and it had felt so natural and right, as if we had known each other for years. And how he had asked to see me again. There it was again: that stupid, irrational little spark of hope.

But then the rest of yesterday came barging in. The faux pas with the text. The phone call with Kevin, his whingeing voice in my ear, nagging, pressing all the same buttons he had all our lives.

_She needs you_

_Who is this bloke, anyway?_

_Aren’t you a bit old to exchange text messages with a hook up?_

_You’re being selfish as usual, living the professional life_

_I’ve got real responsibilities Sarah, you don’t understand, you don’t even have your own family. I can’t do it, I’m too busy_

_You’ll have to sort it Sarah, and you need to grow up. Mum is not well Sarah, she needs you. Stop playing girlfriend and call her_

Rationally, I knew he was exaggerating, making a fuss to guilt-trip me as usual, but until I could talk to her later I would just have to sit and stew. And worry.

I managed a coffee and a bowl of cereal at the table in my Loki t-shirt and cropped jeans. The whole house seemed as cold and empty as my bed had, so I put Radio 4 on loudly and rattled the pots and pans in the kitchen. When I could put it off no longer, I went down to the office and booted up the Mac. While it whirred into life I called my Mum on the landline.

“Hello, Sarah love. How are you?”

She sounded tired. As she always did.

“I’m fine, Mum. Really good actually.”

“Busy with work, I expect.” The mildest of rebukes. It wasn’t easy for me to get to see her as much as I wanted. I don’t have a car and the train to Bury St Edmunds takes a while. When you have an irregular work pattern it can be hard to plan visits and journeys.

_Excuses, excuses_

“I am, but no more than usual. How are you? Sleeping any better?”

“Oh, you know…”

_No, then_

I stood up and walked over to look out of the window, taking myself away from the temptation to start opening things on the computer. The trees outside were in full leaf, and a breeze was wafting through the branches, making a shimmering shiver pass across my vision. It was quiet, just the occasional car passing, loud conversation or door banging. A normal summer day in N6.

“Kev says you’ve been having some trouble with your cooker?”

“Oh that… He shouldn’t have bothered you with that. It’s fine, love. Just something not right with the oven. It won’t heat up. The man’s coming tomorrow to look at it.”

I swallowed. Little things like that, minor irritations that most people take in their stride, those are what can send her into a spiral. Sometimes she copes fine, but there are days when… And my dear brother, despite the fact that he lives five minutes away and has no commitments other than a wife, always expects me to deal with them. I’m over two hours away. On a good day.

“Well, OK. Let me know what he says. If you need a new one or something…”

“Oh I hope not! I’m sure it just needs a new element or whatever.”

I sighed inwardly, hoping she was right. Buying a new cooker would be an ordeal for her. Just deciding on which would be asking a lot. “I wish I could pop over Mum, see you more.”

“I know, love. You have your work, I know. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Taking the job with the Beeb, moving to London, it was all easier for me then. Dad was still alive, and he protected her. And us, actually; covering for her, keeping us from realising how bad things actually were. We knew she wasn’t always happy, and that she sometimes didn’t feel well, but when you’re a kid you just accept things they way they are, don’t you? When Gran left me the house, I didn’t hesitate to move in. I was confirmed in my career, secure and happy in my Metropolitan existence. Living the dream. _Until you start living the life_. Dad died suddenly, and Mum…well, she just sort of crumbled.

Kev was, as I hope you learnt from my exchange with him, an arse. Of course. He had already got the hump about the house (he was left some stocks and shares worth a fortune instead, but that didn’t stop him moaning). He’s one of those blokes who can’t cope with displays of emotion from anyone else, so he just opted out. He visits her, but when things get bad, or when he thinks they might be about to, he rings me. There wasn’t much I could do that week. I had two scripts to work on and they needed to be back with the production teams by Thursday in one case and Monday in the other.

And then there was the whole _Tom Thing_ …

My mobile juddered across the desk and I turned to look at it without thinking. ‘SMA’ was the message id. For a moment I stopped listening to my Mum, then I realised and snapped out of it. She was saying goodbye, but even so…

“Look Mum, I’ve met someone. On Friday. It’s only just, well… but I thought I’d tell you.”

“That’s nice, dear. Someone from work, is it?”

“Sort of. Look, it might not come to anything, but I hope…I don’t know. But in case Kev says anything to you about it, that’s really all there is to know at the moment.”

Once I had finished the call to Mum, I picked up my mobile and read Tom’s message:

**_< Morning. I know you have to work, but any chance of lunch together? Tx>_ **

He had sent another, almost immediately:

**_< PLEASE. I want to see you, Sarah>_ **

I smiled, all worries about Mum side-lined for the moment. I sat down at my desk, opened up the documents I had to work on and scanned the first few pages quickly. It didn’t look too bad.

Another message came in, this one from Marianne.

<SPILL>

I sent her an angel emoticon. Yes, HER, Marianne. I checked the bloody message window twice.

<Don’t gimme that. I was so hoping for the devil one. Raj told me he gave HIM your no. SO???>

_Bloody Raj. Next time he’s getting the full death grip_

I decided she would be a good person to talk it all through with, so I answered.

_< Can we do lunch tomorrow? U can come here>_

Her response made me grin.

<I KNEW IT! C u @ 12.30 tomoz>

There was still the little matter of Tom inviting himself to lunch _today_ to deal with before we could have our girlie chat. I picked up my mobile again. _Correct chat_

_< OK. I can spare time for lunch, but you’ll have to come here. 1pm do you? S xxxx>_

*****

On the dot of one the doorbell rang. I ran down to be met by a panting man

_Did I say man? GOD_

in a tracksuit, hoodie over his head.

“Did you run here?”

“Yes (pant) I thought (pant) it might (pant) be hard to (pant) park…”

I raised an eyebrow.

“And I thought (pant), kill two birds (pant)…”

I grabbed a handful of t-shirt, yanked him into the hall and shut the door. He looked unbearably sexy, all hot and sweaty and breathless. I pushed his hood off as he gathered me into him. He buried his face in my hair and took a breath, long and deep, as if inhaling me.

“Sorry about the sweatiness,” he murmured into my hair. I began to shrug – I liked the sweatiness – but before I could speak his mouth had covered mine. I attempted to keep talking, nonetheless.

“Did (kiss) you run across (nip) the Heath(kiss)?”

He nodded, making a noise that might have been the affirmative, might have been a moan, because my hands had just reached his arse and slipped inside his shorts.

_What?_ _Come ON_

I was only following his lead, because _his_ hands were already inside my top and making goose pimples rise up everywhere. I can’t imagine how, but somewhere inside I found the strength to pause what was happening and drag him upstairs. Well, there are no soft areas in that bloody hall, not even a rug.

By the time we got to my room neither of us had much clothing left on… which was nice. If I had feared he’d lose interest after he had had his wicked way, if I had dallied with the stupid idea that he was ‘that’ sort of a bloke, I was mistaken. I didn’t really think that about him, but you never really know about someone do you? I mean, the amount of temptation must be astronomical for a man in his circumstances. And of course, I still felt that I wasn’t…

Well, let’s see what I thought later. Right then, I was just feeling and doing and being.

Tom seemed desperate, as if it had been months and not barely twenty-four hours since we had been together. He was like a man possessed, kissing me breathless and clutching at my body. I may have clutched a bit too. Well, you know, all those lovely bits: legs, arse, chest, arms… arms… HANDS.

_Hands._ They are big, but he knows so well how to

Sorry. Drifted for a moment. I really like his hands.

_Ahem._

I’d made the bed

_I do that every day, thank you very much. Bloody cheek_

but that was irrelevant because we just fell down on top of it, mouths and hands and in my case, legs clutching. God, he was irresistible! He was hard already, and I could feel the cool dampness of the drop of pre-come on my leg. I tried to process the fact that he wanted me. Me.

Then his hand brushed my folds and I forgot everything else again. I moaned and grunted and bucked against him. I had never been so out of control with a man before. I’d always heard that voice in my head telling me what to do, how to react, what to say. With Tom, I just ‘was’. My thoughts and feelings and actions were one fluid entity, one single thing, without filter or hesitation. His voice in my ear brought me back to earth momentarily.

“Condom, darling?”

I nodded and reached for the bedside table drawer

_Enough with the judgemental crap! I am a woman, it is 2015_

and dug around blindly, still kissing his neck. My fingers skittered over the packet a few times before I engaged my brain fully and got a grip. A warm grasp took hold of it from me and placed it on the table.

“For later. I have something I have to do first.”

I was trying to come up with a relatively witty comment, when I felt him. Have I mentioned his tongue? Oh yes, of course I have. It is as talented as the rest of him. It’s a good thing these old houses have quite solid walls

_And when you touch me I turn golden_

_Stay in all day until the neighbours know your name_

_Thanks, Paloma… Do you think she knows him? Cos…_

I slid the condom over him a little later, as he said, and once again he drove me to heaven and back. I may have screamed, I know he kissed me to smother the noise at one point. Not that he was particularly quiet himself. There was shouting and moaning and saying my name. I liked that. But all good things come to an end eventually. We flopped down beside each other, both sweating now but cooling quickly in the balmy London June. Both panting too, but me more than Mister _über-fit_ , of course. He was smiling, and after a few minutes’ recovery he began to look around the room.

This was his first visit to this floor, and I hoped he’d like what he saw. Like the rest of my home, my bedroom was a testament to my loves. There were framed pictures of the Beatles on one wall (the ones from the Double Album which I have had since childhood), on another, two movie posters ( _Touch of Evil, Archipelago)._

_What? I really love that film, and Joanna’s work in general. And the poster with a certain floof in it…_

There was a low bookshelf in one corner, which had been Gran’s. It was filled with things I like to read in bed. So, Jane Austen, Elizabeth David, the Brontës, Shakespeare, Le Carré, Nigella, Stephen King – my usual eclectic mix – and on top was a selection of family photos. The bed itself was a king size with a plain wooden base, and the linen was white. I have other colours, but for summer I stuck with the white sets, as they feel cooler. On the bedside table I kept pictures of family dogs we had when I was growing up. Cheesy, yes, I know, but I loved those bloody animals…

“I love this room.” His voice was low and sexy. Not exactly Kevin McCloud, but I’d take the compliment.

“Good.” I replied, as eloquent in his presence as usual. I felt a minor discomfort and remembered what he was _supposed_ to have come over for. “Hungry?”

He laughed. “Ah yes, lunch. Hehehehe.”

“I could knock us up a quick pasta, replace some of the energy you used up running here and…” I grinned at his eager expression. Getting up, I had to search for all my clothes, some of which were halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, but I managed to dress with a degree of decorum. Before I left the bedroom I threw him my towelling robe. It’s powder pink with flower on the pocket, and Tom chuckled when he picked it up and looked at it. He stood, put it on, and it barely reached halfway down those magnificent thighs. He looked at me, _eyebrow + eyefuck combination_ , what a jackass. I don’t know how, but somehow I managed to turn away from that sight and headed down to the kitchen. I heard his ‘ _how do I look darling?_ ’ as I left the room (walking not without difficulty).

I began to chop onion and garlic and opened a can of anchovies before I heard his step on the stairs.

“What are you making?”

“Spaghetti alla Puttanesca. Seemed appropriate after dragging a jogger in off the street and ravaging him. And fitting to your current outfit.”

“ _Puttanesca…_ I see.” Tom tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Presumably it is ideal post-coital eating?”

“Yes, _Professor_ , as you will see shortly.” The onion, garlic and anchovies were sizzling in the olive oil and I opened the jar of capers from the fridge and a can of tomatoes. That’s the joy of this recipe – I can usually make it at the drop of a hat (or of my knickers in this case) because it simply requires store cupboard ingredients plus an onion. And if I ever am without an onion and not on my way to the shops to rectify that, then you will know I am DEAD.

I think he liked it. He made some of the same noises when eating it that he had made earlier, put it that way. And he may have licked the bowl. I find that sauce usually goes down well, as long as the person is in the ‘likes capers and anchovies’ camp. Because, _believe it or not_ , there are people in this world who do not like capers and/or anchovies.

_Madness, I know_

I made a pot of tea and we stayed at the table talking for another hour, until I remembered that I have a job and I had to do it. Tom went upstairs and dressed, but he did not leave. He sat in the lounge while I worked; came into my office a few times, gave me a eyefuck on his way to the kitchen, a kiss in between calls, an eyebrow show when he heard me saying something intelligent (I do, once in a while)… He read and answered messages and emails on his phone and I was able to get a lot done. I knew there was nothing ‘normal’ about him being in my house, all day, and yet it felt natural. By six, I was able to shut the Mac down. He may have heard my sigh or the click, because SMA materialised in the doorway. In all his glory.

“Can I get you a drink, darling? Or help with dinner?”

“Shit! Dinner! I haven’t thought about that yet!” Dinner is what we were supposed to do today. Not mind-blowing sex with an _International Man of Swoonery_ at lunchtime.

“Oh, it’s OK, if you want, I can-”

“No, no, it’s fine. I can rustle something up; I just need to check the fridge. I usually have the makings of a reasonable supper stowed away.”

After checking stocks, I served smoked mackerel and egg salad. Not the most gourmet of dinners, but it was lovely, because the view across my beaten up old table was unrivalled. I kept expecting Tom to say he had to leave, but the evening went on and still he didn’t, and as it was getting late I didn’t want him running back in the gathering gloom.

_He might get mugged, or trip over or something, or kidnapped by a fangirl, another fangirl I mean_

So yeah. The next morning my bed didn’t feel all big and empty.


	3. Bacon and Fried Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom asks a BIG question

**_Sausages_ **

**_Sliced black pudding_ **

**_Smoked back bacon_ **

**_Mushrooms_ **

**_Tomatoes_ **

**_Baked Beans_ **

**_Eggs_ **

**_White sliced bread for frying_ **

****

**_*******_ **

It’s funny how you get used to something, isn’t it? How quickly what had at first seemed amazing and thrilling becomes routine, normal. Now, I know what you’re thinking: she’s going to say she started to take being with Tom Hiddleston for granted.

_Ha! WRONG!!_

No, I did not. Honestly, I don’t think that could ever happen. I doubt I will ever stop feeling the butterflies in my stomach at the thought of him, and I will never fail to get all tingly and faint when I see him, touch him, _smell him_ …

_He smells so very good…_

_Drifting again, sorry_

No, I did not get used to being with him, but I did begin to adjust and settle into being in a relationship again. To that lovely, comfy day-to-day thing of waking up and going to sleep with someone, either in person or with a text; to that warm and fuzzy sensation of wondering what they are doing at any given moment, or where they are. It made the days pass in a blur of happiness. Work was no less hectic, in fact I had a massive rush job thrown at me the week after our first tryst, but as Tom was relatively free he just fitted around my needs.

I would work at home, Tom would pop in occasionally, have lunch or dinner or both, and stay over sometimes. At the weekend I made the (not very) arduous trip to his house and settled into _his_ routine instead (sex, food, reading, music, more sex). I had begun to work my way through his library, starting with Homer. I had always felt that was a bit of a gap in my education – tbh, my knowledge of Greek myth is based almost entirely on _Jason and the Argonauts, Clash of the Titans_ and _Troy._ Because Achilles was _exactly_ like Brad Pitt, right? Seriously, it was the ideal opportunity: I could read for a while and then have a Cambridge Classicist to talk it through with afterwards. We seemed to be getting closer; we talked and made love, but we also just spent time in each other’s company, happy in a comfortable silence.

It was a dream; it _had_ to be.

I used Marianne as my sounding board constantly in those weeks, and she became my anchor to reality. She is a good friend, albeit a relatively new one. When I got the job at BBC Drama, she was already there. She’s a bit older than me, divorced, with a teenage daughter, and despite the apparent differences between us we became close very quickly. She was my official professional mentor for my first few months, and remains my personal guardian angel after three years. Even if she is the least angelic person I know.

“So, Sarah, how’s life with a superstar?”

I tried to glare at her across the table at Starbucks, but it was hard to keep the smile off my face. It was week two of our _whatever-it-was_. “Oh shut up.” Her gaze remained steady. “Bloody marvellous, actually.”

“Still the same? Books, food, mind-blowing sex with the next Bond?”

I glanced around, because her voice is one of those laser beam ones you can hear through the noise at the loudest party. “Yes!” I hissed. “Wait. Did they offer him the role? He would have told me…” I heard her laugh. “Oh you! I still can’t really believe it, actually. I keep expecting to wake up.”

“Oh stop it. You’re gorgeous. He’s no fool – you’re quite the catch.”

“Oh Marianne, he’s so… Honestly, even if he weren’t so bloody fabulous to look at, he’s everything I’ve looked for. Intellectually, emotionally, I mean… He’s almost unreal, which is why I need to keep telling myself to slow it all down.”

“Because…?”

“Because it can’t last, can it?”

“Why not? He seemed pretty smitten at your FND, and you’ve been in and out of each other’s beds ever since.” She took a sip of her latte and regarded me with her kind brown eyes. I think she saw through me, she always does. “What’s the real problem, Sarah? Is it your Mum?”

I shrugged. “Well, only partly, but yes, probably. Bloody hell this is all so ridiculous! I don’t want to worry her, so I told her I’m seeing someone but I haven’t said he’s famous. My thinking is, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. If we ever do. Like I said, it’s early days. Why am I even worrying about my mother’s reaction towards me seeing Tom publicly if it is most likely I never will? _Aaarrrrggggh_!”

“They have a 4-letter word for it, darling.”

****

As if on cue, Tom tried to get us to that bridge much sooner than I expected. It was Sunday morning. _Late_ morning, because, well, it was Sunday and we’d not seen each other for a few days until that Saturday afternoon, and, well, you know… Anyway, I was at his place and he was cooking me a full English. The works, even black pudding (which I had mentioned I LOVE) and fried bread (which has to be one of the unhealthiest things I have ever seen Tom eat, apart from desserts, to which he has something of an addiction). I’d had another torrid week, work-wise, and I was in dire need of some TLC. I hadn’t complained to Tom, barely mentioned it in fact, but he has that sensitivity, that ability to pick up on one’s mood and respond with exactly what’s needed. After knowing each other for only three weeks plus change, we were very much in tune. The weather was turning at last, actually resembling summer now and to celebrate that we ate in his courtyard garden, in the shade of his beautiful purple wisteria. It was lovely: quiet and peaceful, and fragrant too. The food was perfect (he really can deliver it all cooked together) and I was stuffing my face happily.

“I’m going to Wimbledon next week.”

“No kidding, Mister _McFeredernerd_.” I said through a mouthful of sausage.

“Hehehe. Did I tell you I like Federer?”

“No, but this girl always reblogs your quotes about tennis and pics of Wimbledon-” I stopped.

“ _Reblog_?” My face might have told him to just drop it… “Seriously, though, I’m going as a guest of _Ralph Lauren_.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

I was rewarded for my shameless use of sarcasm to cover my guilty pleasure with a raised eyebrow; the nearest I had come to a telling-off (so far).  “I meant, do you fancy coming with me, as my ‘plus one’?

Oh god. So, after only three weeks of ‘dating’, during which he had wished as much as I had to keep things under the media radar, he was asking me to be seen with him. In a _very_ public arena.

I took a deep breath. We had talked about this on that first night, about how he couldn’t be seen with a woman without _repercussions_ , not all of them welcome. He was looking at me hopefully. I knew this was a big deal for him, but I also knew that _he knew_ what he was asking of me. I hesitated. We had talked about our families a bit, but I had not opened up about Mum yet, and now I needed to. I tried to decide where to start.

“It’s OK, Sarah, I understand. It’s too soon for you.” His face had a hint of disappointment on it, but he was doing his best to hide it.

Later, I chided myself mercilessly, because I _wanted_ to say: “No, Tom, you don’t. You see, I would like nothing better than to be seen on your arm, but it’s not just about me.” I _wanted_ to be up front and tell him about my tediously dysfunctional family, and why photos of me plastered all over the papers and the net would be something of a disaster.  But I chickened out that time. And I just said “Yes, a little soon,” in a quiet voice that didn’t even convince me. His hand slipped over mine and I felt him pull me a little closer as he shuffled his chair nearer to mine. I was struggling to know where to start but he waited patiently for me to speak.

“Setting aside the natural worries I have about what your fans will think about me-“

“Sarah, why are you even-“

“I know, but I’m human. And I’m not an actress or in the public eye at all. But that’s neither here nor there.” He squeezed my hand now, and looked into my face with such a caring expression I wanted to cry. I hadn’t really dared to allow myself to consider this possibility – that he and I, that ‘we’ would actually become a ‘thing’ - and now I did I found my head full of such apocalyptic visions that I wanted to run away. Still Tom endured, his soft skin against mine, his steady heartbeat against my side, his warmth seeping through me. I turned my face up to his. “I’d _love_ to sit with you on Centre Court, and all that, but… It _is_ too soon. Can we wait a bit longer?”

He nodded. “Of course.” He smiled and my heart melted a little more. “I’m just so… excited, as usual.”

I slapped his arm playfully. I knew his offer was full of meaning. Asking me to be seen with him was significant for Tom, and for me. He kissed me softly; letting his lips drift across my cheek until he was nuzzling my hair.

“And I suppose I’d need to talk to Luke, my PR guy, first, too. He’d be…”

“Apoplectic with rage?” I offered. I knew about Luke. I hadn’t had direct dealings with him or his company, but Raj had, and he’d told me how bulldog-like Mr Windsor is on behalf of his clients.

_And I may have seen the odd picture of him shepherding SMA. Somewhere or other_

“Hehehehe. Yes, I would be in a bit of trouble, yes.” He tightened his arms around my body, so that I was practically on his lap. I reached for my mug and took a gulp of tea before it got cold. This felt like an important moment, and I needed fortification. “I know it’s a big thing I was asking. I haven’t been with anyone for… that is, not together…oh, you know.”

I smiled encouragingly at his flustered face. It was endearing to see him struggle for once.

“I know it’s not been long, but I think we both feel, don’t we…?” he was looking at me hopefully again, “…that we have, that there might be…oh I am messing this up. Rushing you again.” His face tightened and I saw his jaw jutting out in that sign of irritation, this time directed inwards. I reached up and stroked his cheek, relishing the soft skin and prickly stubble.

“It’s fine, Mr Eloquent.”

“It’s just that, now I finally have some time at home, _and_ I’ve found you. Things just feel right, Sarah. I don’t want to waste a moment.”

I shuffled onto his lap properly and kissed him. I was afraid to speak, fearing that a word from me would break the spell, so I tried my best to show him how I felt with my body. I wriggled a little against him as I let my lips brush against his forehead. I felt him breathe deeply and his hands slid up under my top and supported me as he leaned forward and sucked softly on my neck. He was getting hard, I was getting wet but we were outside, so he whispered that we should go indoors. His garden is a little bit overlooked, not _badly_ , but al fresco sex might make headlines…

We didn’t go far, just to the sofa – _the_ sofa. We had stopped using condoms by then. I have an implant, and it saves all that faffing around. Plus, well, you know… _his_ … right. As soon as we went through the door he lifted me up and carried me, legs around his waist, to the sitting room. He sat down and we carried on where we had left off in the garden, kissing each other breathless. But it was slow and easy, no rush, no grabbing or clutching, just gentle, steady but inexorable progress. I heard his phone buzz, but he ignored it as he always did when we were together, unless I told him it was OK. Right then it was _definitely NOT OK._

Have I told you how much I love his hands? I have, yes. But can we talk about his hands? They are…well, I don’t want to tell you _everything,_ but they are strong and gentle, beautiful, elegant and powerful. In other words, they are Tom in microcosm. Sometimes, just the sight of his hands touching me can affect me profoundly. His touch is so loving and sexy, and I can lose myself in it. _In him. But in a good way._ And the way he took my clothes off that morning, as we lay together on his soft suede sofa, was so incredibly sexy I thought I might die.

This time, it was… _special_. Maybe because asking me to go out in public with him was some kind of watershed, or maybe because it was too soon and he felt bad, I don’t know, but he was more intense, more serious, it was _oh so very erotic…_ Apart from kissing and undressing, nothing he did to me for the first half an hour was overtly sexual, just intimate. By the time we were both naked I was as close to orgasm as I could ever imagine being _without Tom having touched me properly._ When he did… well, you can guess.

The cuddling afterwards. The embraces and the kisses and the intense feeling of connection. I knew that morning, for a fact, that I was lost in him.

“It’s OK, Sarah, you know. To talk. When you are ready.” He was speaking very softly, low and dark into my ear as I held him tight. We were still as close as two humans can get, and I was reluctant to release him.

“Tom, I…” I managed, my breath still short.

“I don’t want to rush you but I want you to know, I am ready to listen, and I want to understand whatever it is that is giving you pause.” I took his face in my hands and looked deep into his eyes. I struggled to keep my composure, and not to say the words that came to my lips at that moment.

_Not yet, don’t say it, Sarah… not yet._

“I know. About Wimbledon…” He winced, and I felt bad, he knew I was avoiding the subject, “You know, I’d love to, god, who wouldn’t want the world to know that… Sorry, I didn’t mean that how it sounded… I just meant that I feel so good and I want to share that, but it’s complicated, right?”

He sighed and we parted momentarily, rearranging ourselves on the narrow sofa. He unfolded himself, lying back against the cushions. He looked at me with his characteristic hypnotic intensity, grabbed my arm and pulled me against his chest. “Yes, it is. I wish it wasn’t, but it is.”

 “So,” I said, “what are we going to do with the rest of our day?” I looked up at his impossibly perfect face. He was still tanned from his time in the Med, and I loved the honey hue his skin had taken on. The sunshine of June was just daring to emerge from the rain and chill we had been experiencing and I hoped he would keep that colour a bit longer.

“We could read, for a change.” His deadpan expression gave nothing away. “But I should run, before it gets too hot.”

“And I should take my constitutional too. Let’s both go to the Heath in a bit.”

We had become experts at the covert shared exercise routine. I set off walking, and then a few minutes later Tom left the house in his running gear, speeding past me on the way. I would take my usual route around the Heath, and our paths would cross more than once; he would usually give me a little secret sign or a lightening-fast grin. Back home an hour later, we settled in our chairs to read, me still ploughing through _The_ _Iliad_ , Tom working on his new script or some background study. A break mid-afternoon: tea and cake and a discussion about Dian Fossey… I never knew what we’d end up talking about. Which was part of the joy of being in his company.

No, not part: nearly all.

Oh yes, the 4-letter word. I knew it, of course. I loved him.


	4. Mackerel and Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah find the Wimbledon fallout hard to handle, and finally comes clean about her worries.

New potatoes, halved or quartered

Shallots, halved

Olive oil

A few bay leaves, torn

Mackerel fillets

                                                ******

Wimbledon. Jeez, fucking Wimbledon and HIM, SMA, going and looking so…

_So exactly how he was: fit and tanned and GAAAHHHD_

I don’t mind admitting it was a massive smack in the gob for me. Because in the time we had been together thus far, having our private, sweetly romantic and sexy trysts at his place and mine, well… he’d been _mine._ I had kept on looking at Tumblr, at the pictures from Mallorca and Devon, and all the _oldie-but-goldie_ photos.

_my personal favourites included_

_no I’m not telling_

_but they involve a bath and a fedora_

But there weren’t any of the Tom I knew. The one I had kissed. The one I had held and cooked for and sat reading with and, yes, _fucked._

But the day after he went to Wimbledon, my dash was awash with _that_ Tom. Smiling sexily at the camera, the way he did at me. Wearing that silly hat he put on whenever we sat in the garden (“to protect the skin of my inexorably receding hairline, my darling”). The chest I leaned on under that gorgeous _Ralph Lauren_ ; the eyes I looked into from no distance at all scanning the court… The legs I loved so much crossed sexily as he posed outside the hospitality for the photographers.

I hated it.

_HATED. IT._

_< Your fella looked fab yesterday>_

Marianne’s opening text. Not one for beating around the bush, my dearest pal.

_< I saw>_

_< Ouch!>_

_< It’s fine. I could have gone. Said no>_

_< Idiot. Lunch?>_

Still I kept staring at my phone. I wanted to look away, put it down and get on with tweaking the script I was supposed to be concentrating on, because it hurt. It hurt like hell. Instead of feeling the way I had expected to

_A sort of triumphant “Ha! That’s MINE!”_

I felt sick. I can’t explain it properly, even now. I do know I was filled with foreboding. I read the comments and they felt like confirmations of some of my deepest fears: there was much implicit happiness that he was alone, and therefore remained ‘available’. That made me even more certain that many people would definitely _not_ approve of me, and the storm that would follow any ‘outing’ of our relationship would be pretty terrible for Mum. But more importantly, I knew by now I was deeply in love with Tom, and I did not know how, in the future, I would recover from seeing him with somebody else. If that was ever to happen… I couldn’t. I kept looking

_I know, but we do, don’t we?_

and it began to sink in, finally. What I was getting myself into. Because if pictures of him alone at a tennis tournament caused this much wailing and gnashing of teeth, not to mention apparent orgasms,

_that part I sympathised with_

then I needed to get a handle on my feelings about all this, about Public Tom, the one the world sees, or I would go bonkers. 

*****

I knew he had noticed my unease as soon as I got to his place the next evening. He had protested but I insisted on walking over, needing the air to clear my mind. It hadn’t helped much, and although he asked me immediately if there was something wrong, I denied it. I might have clung to him a bit too tightly, too long… We kissed, he brought me a cup of tea and we sat on the sofa together.

“Good time yesterday?” I don’t _think_ my teeth were gritted.

“Yes,” he said cautiously. I’m no actor,

_obvs_

and I am completely shit at hiding it if I am unhappy. I try, natch, but no – utterly SHIT. “The matches were good, and it was fun, despite the rain breaks.”

“So I saw.” Now I was annoyed. Not with him, or anyone else, but with me, for being so upset. “Many swooning fans? Did you have to climb over a heap of bodies to get to your seat?” I was smiling, but I don’t think he was fooled for a moment.

“A couple… Are you angry with me, Sarah? Because you-“

“I know!” I cut him off, my voice a little to strident. “I’m not angry, no, I’m glad you had a nice time. Ignore me.”

He smiled too, but I could see he was uneasy. Despite being one of the finest actors of his generation, in his own life SMA cannot lie for toffee. I tried to get a grip and he kept up the slightly false cheer as he laid the table while I got dinner going.  We talked about his autumn itinerary while he opened a bottle and I plated the food. We were both dancing around the all-too-present pachyderm, until he cleared his throat.

_Shit_

I knew it was time to woman-up.

We had sat down to eat at the table in his bright, white kitchen-diner, our knees touching. Music was drifting in from the sitting room where he had deliberately left his phone. It was soft piano jazz, warm and sexy. I’d made one of my favourite HF-W

_Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You know, the bloke who ate a placenta once. He’s put that behind him_

recipes, a simple dish of potatoes and mackerel fillets. Healthy too, all those omega-3 thingies, and a one-pot job, which is always a bonus. I had tried to stop cooking for Tom all the time, but compulsions born of loveand a deep need to care for him are hard to control, and he welcomed it.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this yet, Sarah, but I think we need to. A bit anyway.”

“’ _This’_?”

I was rewarded for my disingenuousness with one of his expressive eyebrow raises.

I shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s just…” I hesitated, because despite knowing this moment was coming, I had not rehearsed at all. Which isn’t like me. Normally I over-prepare and overthink difficult conversations – I run through them in the shower, so that I can cry freely if I have to, or practice looking intelligent, for dramatic impact. There are times when I do this to the point that when the other person doesn’t say what I expect, I nearly faint.

_Yeah. Idiotic_

I looked at his beautiful, thoughtful face. Every line of that face. Swifts rushed by outside the window, cannoning through the spaces between the buildings, screaming after each other like a gang of yobbos off to paint the town red or watch their team at The Emirates. I consciously attempted to calm my churning insides and breathe more slowly. I had to lay it all out for him; I couldn’t keep prevaricating. “When I said, before when… when I said things were complicated, I meant…well, I was thinking about my Mum.” I felt Tom relax a little into his chair. “She’s not well, you see.” His hand covered mine and squeezed it gently. “She’s been ill for a long time, all my life at least, but it got worse when Dad died, plus she lost her primary carer, of course.”

“What is it, my love?” I could feel tears threatening to flow but I was determined to tell him in as matter of fact a way as possible. I kept my eyes on my plate, knowing that another look at his face would probably break the dam.

“Depression. And anxiety. She’s on tablets, but they only help when she’s not too bad. And when she is bad, she doesn’t always take them.” His grip on me became a bit firmer. “She manages most of the time, but since Dad’s death, well, she’s more fragile.”

Tom took a deep breath. “What would unsettle her? That you are seeing someone, or that that someone is me?”

“I’ve told her I am seeing someone, of course. And no, she wouldn’t be troubled by you, silly man, but you _Tom Hiddleston_ you. _Famous person_ you.”

“So you’re afraid that the press or whatever, ringing her up-“

“…I don’t know, I don’t know what to expect, exactly. But I am afraid it would send her into a spiral. Yes.” I felt him putting his arms around me and pressing his lips into my hair. “She’s easily knocked off-balance by little things. What a big, pressurised thing might-“

“Perfectly understandable. What have you told her about me?”

“Just your first name, and how I feel about you.”

“Oh yes? And how do you feel about me?” He was smiling; I could hear it in his voice. I snuggled a bit more into his chest, feeling the tension in the room lift a little.

“Never you mind. You’ll find out one day. I haven’t mentioned that you’re famous yet. I didn’t want to worry her if-“

“If?” I looked up. He knew what I was saying. His gaze was intense, and I felt myself blushing.

“If things didn’t last, between you and me. If you went to San Diego, or Toronto or met someone fabulous at the Ralph Lauren Lounge, and that was that. She doesn’t need any of the worry, to know the details, to get upset on my behalf, about my life. She has enough trouble coping with her own.”

His eyes were still burning my face, making my heart try to beat out of my chest. “Did you – _do you_ think this is just… just a _fling_ , Sarah?”

Now the tears came, and I was unable to stop them. I shook my head. “No, Tom. At least, not on my part, and you haven’t done anything to make me think so. But you’re… You’re _TOM HIDDLESTON,_ for fuck’s sake!”

His fingers lifted my chin and his lips brushed over mine. “No, I’m not him, whoever he is. I’m just Tom. Just a bloke who wants to be with you. Do you want to be with me?” I managed a nod. I’m not entirely sure how, but we ended up in bed fairly soon after that. Sex therapy, you can call it. Works.

Now we could speak more openly about things, I agreed to meet with Luke at some point before Tom set off on his odyssey of film festivals, interviews and premieres. Just in case. Be prepared. Belt and braces (insert cliché of choice). The plan was to keep things private for the foreseeable future, though. Tom thought Luke would have some strategies to protect Mum, and we found out later that he was right about that. Most importantly for the short-term, I took the train (or I should say, _trainS_ ) up to Bury St Edmunds. I still love the place, although it feels less like home now. Even the house I grew up in seems subtly different. Perhaps it’s because its contents have changed. Maybe I’ve changed.

We sat in the front room, on the chintz sofas that are always much more comfy than any I have owned, and I looked out of the window. I had come to hate the view, the houses and trees across the road, the Greenwoods’ garage door, that orchid in the Bullards’ bay window. I couldn’t wait to leave, go away to Uni and then carve out a career; to get my own view to look out on. Now the familiar sight soothed me. It seemed so unfair that being in love brought with it these complications, and that it was not me who would be hardest hit, if things got nasty. Or even just a bit silly.

Mum had bustled around, making tea and opening packets of biscuits. It was clear she was tired, but I knew to look for signs: she looked well groomed and the house was clean. Her once blonde hair is salt-and-pepper nowadays, because she stopped dyeing it after Dad’s stroke. She does seem older than her sixty years, but her kind hazel eyes are still set in a beautiful face. She sat forward in her chair, listening intently as I talked, measuring my words carefully to avoid alarming her.

“So you think, if people find out about you and him, the papers will be interested?” Mum leaned back with her cup and saucer. She was trying to be casual, but I saw how white her knuckles had become as I took her through the details I had withheld up until then.

“Maybe, maybe not… but we don’t plan on telling anyone yet. Only a very few people know – all of them trustworthy – but, well, you know, accidents can happen.”

‘He’s that famous, your Tom?”

“He is, Mum, yes. Remember when they had the Shakespeare plays on telly for the Jubilee?”

“Yes, dear. Was he in that? I thought it was Jeremy Irons and that lovely Simon Whatsit Doodah. And that lovely fey chap, Ben Wilkins or something…?”

“Whishaw. Yes, they were in it, but Tom played Hal, and Henry the Fifth in the last one.”

Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh! _HIM!_ ” She put her cup down carefully. “Pass me your phone again. I want to look at those pictures one more time.”

*******

I think it was at about ten o’clock one evening that August when it really hit me. It was one of those surprisingly tropical summer evenings that occasionally turn up in England, quite unexpectedly. I was hosting the first FND since _THE_ FND… It hadn’t been possible to arrange one for well over a month, what with some people being away on holiday, others being snowed under with work or tied up on location (me and Raj, respectively), so when it became clear that just about everyone could make that particular date, I hastily called an emergency meeting of the BAN club (Booze And Nosh).

All the usual suspects were there, except for Cassie and Jim who were in Cornwall. In other words, all the witnesses to the original _eyefuck of doom_ were present again. And they were all mildly surprised and not a little amused to see Tom there again. All except Marianne and Raj, of course, since they were already in the know, as it were. I knew I could trust them all not to blab. Tom had been with me since the day before, and had helped prepare the food and get the garden ready. He had chosen and bought the wines, and I dotted tea lights around the place, hung my IKEA lanterns from the ancient apple trees and the garden began to look very middle-class poncey. _A_ _2015 version of the Bloomsbury Group. Or not._ Oh well. I admit to being decidedly _North London Middle-class Media Mafia._

_Don’t like it? You know where the door is_

As the hot day was forecast to lead into a stifling night, I’d opted for a cold buffet, so we could all mill around outside in the warm evening air. My garden table is metal, painted green and pretty, but no good, size-wise, for more than the occasional intimate al fresco breakfast. But I can seat plenty outside by dotting chairs from indoors about, and as long as some don’t mind using the low wall along the little patio as a bench. And most people I know don’t. The best part about the space is that it is tree-lined, shady and as a result, despite the close proximity of my neighbours, pretty private _._

The metal fire escape stairs to the garden go from the landing outside the kitchen, so I had laid the food out up there, on the old table, away from the flies: a whole poached salmon (Gran’s copper fish kettle is an absolute godsend), prawns, crayfish and langoustines next to big bowl of homemade mayo. A range of salads surrounded the fish – potato, coleslaw, mixed bean, tomatoes sliced with balsamic and olive oil, radishes and gherkins, cucumber and sour cream… and lashings of French bread. I’d also made my sesame-scented favourites, hummus and babaganoush, because I love them, even though they didn’t really go… The desserts were my normal standbys (I’m not really a pudding person, but someone I know is, so I am extending my repertoire) of chocolate mousse, fruit salad and a green, citrusy summer favourite, courgette cake.

You know me by now. I don’t do formal.

So, as I was saying, it was getting dark and the party was in full swing when I looked up and saw him. Tiny brown pipistrelles were flying in the gloom, just above head height, chasing the moths the tea lights and the outside lanterns were attracting, and the effect was magical as the sun went down.

_Yes, you know, that epiphany moment in films when things become slow motion. Cliché? Maybe, yes, and 100000% real._

He was opening yet another bottle of Prosecco when I heard his voice and turned away from listening to Raj tell his latest ‘poor me, how rotten the producers are to me’ sob story. My man was doing the rounds with the bottle, topping people up, occasionally running indoors to fetch a new one or something else.

_Something in the way he moves_

He looked just _GORGEOUS_ in a tight white button-down and black trousers. I felt a surge of lust, as so often. He was being the perfect host, as you might expect from such a charming, sophisticated person. But he was doing it at _my house._ In his role, as _my man._

_My_ man

We were _a couple._

_Me and SMA_

_Shit. This really happening_

“He looks at home, Sarah.”

I had stopped listening to Raj while I watched Tom’s progress around the party. I brushed his remark off. “Oh shut up. He’s a well brought-up Englishman. You know him, he’s just being his usual self.”

Raj gave me a sceptical look. “You forget, darling; I _do_ know him. Yes, he’s a charming flirt, true, but tonight this is Hiddleston in his natural environment.” He paused for effect

_What a drama queen_

I felt the blush breaking out. “Stop it, Raj.”

“Oh, come on, Sarah. It’s obvious. He’s not hiding _anything_ this evening.”

_I did mention that earlier – not for TOFFEE_

And to complete the scene from a bloody perfect Richard Curtis film, Tom chose that moment to look over and dazzle me with one of his 1000W smiles. My heart squeezed, I held my breath, my stomach flipped and my… well, never mind, you can guess.

He was talking to Marianne, who was gazing up at him, her eyes even bigger and rounder than usual – she looked a bit like Puss in Boots holding his hat – and I smiled at the sight. She is about six inches shorter than me, so only about five foot, and they looked comical from a distance. They were just in earshot and his words caught my attention. They had to be talking about me.

“Oh don’t worry, I know.”

“Well, just you remember, Thomas. Or I will remind you darling.”

I walked over, anxious to stop her from saying anything else embarrassing.

“Mitts off, Marianne.”

She jumped back as if burned. “Oh, _excuse me, me lady…”_ My friend gave me the unsubtlest of winks and drifted off to join the group chatting by the lilac.

Tom reached for me with his free arm and topped up my glass, all in one graceful movement that ended with me fast against his side. “Having a good time, darling?”

I sighed happily and nodded. “You?”

“Oh yes. Odysseus couldn’t have had a better feast before his voyage.”

“He says, sweetly and subtly reminding me I am behind with my reading…”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of free time soon.”

My heart sank a little at the thought. “Yeah. Let’s… not.”

 

*****

_< Hey>_

**_< Yes, love?>_ **

_< Guess where I am>_

**_< Felixstowe>_ **

_< Shit. Forgot to switch that off. Visiting that aunt I told u abt>_

**_< Tell her said hi>_ **

_< Not sure she knows who you are :D>_

**_< Ouch. Need to work on that demographic. U must go to that bookshop. Orwell Rd. And the café on the front. The Alex>_ **

_< Don’t worry! How’s it going?>_

**_< Good. Usual. Some fun, some tedium. Mostly fun. Miss u xxxxxx>_ **

_< Ditto. OK. Gotta run. No wifi in her mid-20thcentury world so texts until Thursday xxx>_

_*******_

_< Tom. U there?>_

**_< Just woke. U OK love?>_ **

**_< Where are you? You know I’m still in NYC, right?>_ **

_< Yes, of course. I’m at that shop you told me abt>_

**_< Oh good. What’s the problem, Sarah? Something happen?>_ **

_< Do you have a copy of Maugham’s collected stories?>_

**_< No. U don’t need to buy me anything, love>_ **

_< I do. He has so much here. How’s your Le Carré collection?>_

**_< I have most of them. Please, just look for yourself. We can share :D>_ **

**_********_ **

_< Tom>_

_< I need help. Urgently>_

**_< What is it love? How can I help from here?>_ **

_< I need to buy about 100 books>_

**_< Ah. Well, I sympathise. Try to calm down>_ **

_< Seriously Tom, I NEED THEM ALL>_

_< Actually I think I need an intervention or something>_

_< This place is MAGNIFICENT. I want EVERYTHING>_

**_< U don’t have room for everything, love.>_ **

_< I know. And he doesn’t deliver. I came by train. Hence the intervention requirement>_

**_< Only u would write requirement in a text>_ **

_< u would>_

**_< True>_ **

_< Seriously. I am in MAJOR trouble here>_

**_< Perhaps just buy 1 or 2?>_ **

_< Thomas>_

**_< Sorry. Let me think. I’m in a car, on my way to an interview. Give me a few mins>_ **

**_*******_ **

**_< OK, Sarah, darling. Had a thought. When does he close?>_ **

_< 5.30>_

_***_

_< Tom? U there? Sorry, I know you’re busy>_

**_< Here love. Just texting someone else. OK. Faisal is coming with the car. Be there abt 4, he says>_ **

_< WHAT?>_

**_< Buy what u can afford. He’ll take them and u home>_ **

_< I don’t deserve u. Or Faisal. Is he married? Does he have children? The children’s section here is SUPERB>_

**_< Sarah, he’s coming in the Jag, not a lorry>_ **

_< OK, OK. I’m getting you the Maugham. And some nice eds of Le Carré. And one other surprise>_

**_< No need. But ta xxxxx>_ **

**_< Wish I were there with u. I could do with a nice browse and some quiet.>_ **

_< If u were here, we wouldn’t be quiet>_

**_< Stop it. I’m on live TV in 10>_ **

_< I miss u badly>_

**_< Ditto. Soooo badly, S>_ **

_< Soon>_

**_< Not soon enough. Xxxxx>_ **


	5. Bread and Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is far away, and Sarah is taking comfort where she can.

**_Some creamy hard cheese, preferably extra mature or vintage cheddar_ **

**_Jacobs Cream Crackers (no substitute)_ **

**_OR_ **

**_White, soft, crusty bread, fresh so that it still smells of yeast_ **

**_Butter. Loads of lightly-salted, French if possible._ **

**_Pickle, chutney, pickled onions and/or cornichons_ **

**_Grapes, Cox’s Orange Pippin apples (the only concession to my heart in this whole thing)_ **

****

Tom was as good as his word. Dead on four o’clock a beautiful dark blue Jag drew up to the kerb outside the bookshop, just after I had returned from a long lunch at the Alex, the café down on the seafront. A charming man with a kind face climbed out and introduced himself to me as Faisal, Tom’s driver and assistant. I noted he did not say ‘bodyguard’, but that was one role I knew he had taken on occasionally, “when needed”, as Tom had tactfully described it. Faisal took my bag of books and did not bat an eyelid when I told him there were three more boxes inside. Nor when he saw the size of the boxes. The boot of the car, designed, as it famously was, to accommodate the bodies of enemies, had little difficulty with thirty or so volumes of literature and history.

I still had to pop back to Aunty Barbara’s place to collect my luggage and say goodbye to the old dear. I offered to navigate when Faisal asked for the address and found myself talking too much; I’m like that when I am nervous. I wanted to make conversation but it’s hard to do that when you have to keep saying “Right here and mind out for the high kerbing…”, not to mention when you have only just met someone. I realised that I knew next to nothing about Faisal personally, but he nodded politely as I gabbled on about the history of the town while we wound our way through the surprisingly busy roads of Felixstowe in October. I made most of it up, actually (or at least I embroidered the few facts I did know) – I thought I could safely assume he had studied it less than me. Nonetheless, I got more and more anxious as we went along. I felt this need to show him I was a perfectly logical and civilised fangirl. I mean _not-fangirl_. I mean girlfriend.

_Hang on_

Did Faisal think I was just a FWB??!!! Or did he think I was Tom’s girlfriend?

_Hang on_

_I WAS Tom’s girlfriend_

Tom and I had continued to talk about things, about maybe going out in public together sometime in the future, but not yet. Since he’d been globetrotting, despite us being apart, my feelings hadn’t changed, and I got the impression his hadn’t either. So, I pondered, that was a discussion SMA and I really needed to continue, when he got back from this trip. My mind, which had been quite rested an hour before, thanks to a few days by the sea, was in turmoil again. By the time the car slid its feline self up into the quiet cul-de-sac where Barbara lived, I felt as if I had run a marathon. _And_ _I’m sure that by then Faisal thought I was anything BUT logical and civilised._

I asked him to wait while I went inside quickly and he did so happily, probably glad of some peace and quiet. I tapped on the kitchen window as I squeezed down the path between the wall of the house and the rather overgrown jasmine that was hiding the fence. I was rewarded with a broad smile as my Mum’s cousin opened the back door for me (yes, it’s a British thing – all female relatives and some friends of the previous generation tend to get called ‘Aunty’).

“There you are! Cuppa char, Sarah, dear?”

“No thanks, I really need to get on the road. I just need my stuff. I’ve got a lift back to London.”

“Ooh, is he here?” She ran to the front of the house, moving surprisingly quickly for a woman in her late seventies. “Nice car…is that him? Not what I’d have expected… Who did you say he was? What’s he been in? He doesn’t look familiar…”

I walked past the sitting room on the way to the spare bedroom where my bags were waiting. Barbara was on tiptoes, her round tummy making the figurines on the sill wobble, peering over the rhododendron at Faisal, who was leaning against the car door. “Invite him in, then, Sarah.”

“That’s not Tom, Aunty. That’s Faisal.” I continued gathering my stuff.

Suddenly her voice came from much closer. “Sarah!” I turned to see her standing in the doorway, arms folded. She was regarding me sternly. “Seeing two men at once? Does your Mum know?” She shook her head sadly. “That’s not nice, Sarah.”

I tried not to laugh, because she meant well with her scolding. “No, _Faisal works for Tom_.” Barbara’s expression went blank. “I rang _Tom_ from Richard’s Books – he’s in America at the mo’ – and he very kindly asked Faisal to help me.” I paused before continuing, knowing she’d tell me off for this instead. “I went a bit mad, bought too many books to carry on the train-”

“I told you! That shop is DEADLY!” She turned back in the direction of the street. “So this chap has driven all the way from London, _just to pick you up?_ ” I nodded, smiling a bit awkwardly. Tom had made it sound like nothing, but now I had to explain it to someone…“Invite him in! He must need a wee, and he can have a cuppa too.”

“But I said-“ But she was gone, back to the kitchen, and I could hear the kettle and the snap of the cake tin. I shrugged and opened the front door to beckon Faisal in. The poor man. Soon the three of us were sitting round the little Formica table in her yellow and blue kitchen, and poor Faisal was doing his best to ward off her attempts to fatten him up with slices of bread pudding and fruit buns. _What she’ll say when she sees Tom… and when he tastes her chocolate cake…_ As usual, she had weedled more information out of Faisal in a few minutes than the CIA could have managed in months. When he left us to answer the predicted call of nature, Barbara turned her formidable interrogation skills back onto me.

“This ‘Tom’, he must think a lot of you, Sarah.” Her face was neutral, but years of avoiding questions about boyfriends had taught me otherwise.

“Well… we have only been seeing each other for a few weeks, well three months, give or take… Of course he’s not short of money. But he’s really, really nice. And kind. And gorgeous. And thoughtful…” As I spoke, the eyebrows rose steadily.

“When are you taking him to see your Mum?”

“He’s not in the country right now, as I said, and when he comes back he’ll be really busy, then he’s leaving for-“

“Is he _very_ famous, Sarah? _Hello, OK, Daily Mail_ famous?”

I swallowed. I knew what she was getting at. “Yes,” I replied, nodding, “and I know what you mean. Which is why we’re keeping it all on the QT for now.”

She smiled encouragingly and squeezed my hand. “Can I see a picture then?” I brought up a nice one on my phone. It was a selfie of us together in his garden, then I found one of him in that silly straw hat of his. Her eyes widened. “Oh yes. Very handsome. _And_ rich? _And_ nice? But I have never seen him before, are you sure he is THAT famous? You know men exaggerate my darling, pretty men in particular, and look at his lovely face. Can he act? ” She nudged me – she was a terrible tease. “You are a very successful woman, Sarah, he is lucky to have you.” She paused for breath, but before I could think of something to say she started up again. “I can see you are very fond of him, dear, and if he is fond of you, then what else do you need? Sounds like a keeper to me.”

I am looking forward to getting older. I need the wisdom. And the perspective.

Faisal had some lovely music on his phone, and I was soothed, even as I waved to Aunty B standing by her gate, smiling at the car as we drove away. There was nothing I could do for the moment, and, as Mum herself always says, “sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof…”

*****

Is it just me, or does everybody’s house smell a bit, well, ‘off’ when you get back from a trip? Mine always seems to, no matter how scrupulous I am about cleaning, emptying the bin and disposing of any perishables (not that I am that scrupulous, but even on the rare occasions I am…)

Faisal carried my ridiculous quantity of books in and stacked them neatly in the hall for me. I offered him a drink but he declined. I think he was still awash with tea, and stuffed with bread pudding and buns. So he left, and I closed the door and stood, remembering that I was alone and the one person I really neededto be with was thousands of miles away. The house was all echoey and empty. And dark, now that autumn was with us. I climbed the stairs slowly, taking just my suitcase and my big ‘day bag’ – the one I can use to carry my MacBook as well as all my other junk. I decided to leave the book sorting until I felt like it.

Which turned out to be quite a few days later.

I settled down that night with my default lonely dinner – cheese. It’s terribly bad for me, sometimes gives me a migraine, but I love it and it is my comfort food. Cheese and carbs…

_I needed comfort. I was on edge, you see. Not just lonely, but tense too_

Tom and I had met with Luke at Tom’s house before he left for North America. I was pleased to have the chance to meet him; he came across as a consummate professional, and someone who cared about Tom beyond his professional obligation. I could see, first hand, through their interactions, that their friendship was genuine and comforting.

Luke shook my hand forcefully. “Sarah, a pleasure to finally meet the reason for this idiot’s recent surge in wisdom and happiness. Please, continue your hard work. We’ll make a worthy star of him together.”

What a charmer, baritone voice and everything… _was he dating anyone?_ I have single friends… I digress. I trusted him and relaxed on the spot. Tom told him what we wanted, to be able to live our relationship in the open, considering the potential restrictions of his celebrity. As normal as normal was possible for us. Luke started asking things about me, my work, my friends. I was happy to share it all with him. I was going to omit mentioning the existence of my Tomblr account, but he had to ask about my social media footprint... I told you, a pro.

I explained Mum’s mental health issues and he was very sympathetic. Overall, he thought I could remain out of the spotlight for this promo time, no problem, but that if, as Tom had mentioned, we were going to live a normal life, and I was to visit him on the _Skull Island_ shoot at any stage, or if we were to go out to dinner or to the theatre together, he had to plan a ‘release strategy’. We had agreed to meet later to discuss his ideas, in detail. Now that second meeting was imminent and I was stressing.

_This is all so surreal_

And the way I was feeling was stupid, irrational, _unsustainable._

I was torn, pulled in two opposing directions so much that I barely slept while he was in California. I wanted the world to know; I wanted to stay a secret forever. Pictures and video flooded in and I struggled. BIG TIME. My reaction had scared me shitless, because I didn’t think I was jealous by nature, and I trust Tom implicitly. But I did NOT want to share him. I dreaded the reaction of his fans, I wanted them to stop the lust-filled posts; I sympathised with them (after all, a short time ago I was little different), but I resented them… None of it made sense, even to me.

I realise now that it was all just fear.

******

I baked a cake. It seemed like the right thing to do. By the time the day dawned and Luke rang my doorbell, I had my answers ready.

I thought.

_Holy SHIT_

The ‘ _positioning’_ , how to ‘ _control the message_ ’, options for ‘ _statements’_ , the media plan…

_What?_

Oh yes, the ‘ _media plan’_ to say we were bloody dating… Who gets the story, how they’ll monitor the pick up…

Well, let’s just say Luke disabused me; rid me of my last vestiges of innocence. He wanted me to know _precisely_ what I was opening myself up to. We were Facetiming with SMA. A pretty serious looking SMA. The intensity of the discussion became worse when he brought up the whole media thing, the social media thing, in particular.  

“Sarah, you’re going to have to toughen up. Most reactions will be normal, whether they like you or not, but there’re crazy people everywhere and, unfortunately, social media gives them a broadcasting platform. You will have to learn to ignore them. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Trying to counteract the vibe of the discussion, Luke shifted the conversation towards the positive actions we should take to minimise the effects of this madness on all of us.

“Your mum is not on _Instagram_ , is she?” That had us all chuckling.

“No, but I bet Aunty Barbara is.”

We bid farewell to Tom, so that Luke and I could set about reducing my online profile to a pimple. Not that it was huge, of course, but the less the better. Once that was achieved I made more coffee. Luke was reassuring and upbeat. He has such a kind face, but it was sad as he looked across the kitchen table at me.

“I am sure I don’t have to tell you that being in a public relationship with Tom is going to change your life. Whatever we do, it is going to be hard going for a while.” I nodded. “And Sarah, I hope you recognise that nothing I have said today is in any way meant as a means of scaring you, of putting you off, or of trying to come between you both.” He grinned. “To be honest, I’m chuffed he’s found someone – it’s about time – but we all need to be realistic.”

“I know. I get it, Luke. And thanks. For everything.”

I didn’t sleep well, and I don’t mind admitting I cried a little. I had been focussed on Mum; I had ignored my own vulnerabilities.

Stupid? Yeah. Naïve? Maybe. _DENIAL?_ Definitely.

*****

“What’s this?”

I had handed Tom a parcel, wrapped in some nice paper with a bookshelf print I had found.

“There is a traditional method of ascertaining that information.” I smiled at his scowling face brightly, and watched his reaction as he tore off the paper.

“Oh, this is fantastic!”

It was an attractive edition of Jerome K Jerome’s comic masterpiece, _Three Men In a Boat._ I had spotted it lurking amongst the _Folio Society_ items in the Felixstowe bookshop and remembered he had told me how much he loved it. “I know this is a rather too big and heavy copy to take on a plane, so maybe you might prefer a Kindle one, but I could not resist it. I thought, maybe, we might reread it in tandem, while you’re far out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And I thought, such a quintessentially English story would stop you forgetting me…”

_God why did I sound so needy? Ah yes, because I love him, he had just arrived, but he would be leaving soon and that makes me feel bloody needy_

He put the book down carefully and pulled me back into his embrace. He had only arrived back home that morning and I could see the strain of tiredness in his face. I ran my hands up his neck and played with his soft curls.

_Gahhdd I love his hair. Soft, silky, smooth. And when it is golden like it was then, irresistible_

“I cannot imagine ever forgetting you, my darling Penny.”

“ _Penny_?”

He chuckled and I felt it shimmy through me, a thrill of arousal following in its wake. “I’ve been on an odyssey, you’ve been here at home, waiting patiently.”

“Not particularly patiently… Hold on, that means I need to call you… let me think…. Yeah: _Oddie_.”

_See? I was catching up with my reading, like he said_

“Yes,” he kissed my temple softly, his lips lingering then moving inexorably towards mine, “we can drift down the Thames together, with Montmorency…”

I gave myself up to the kiss, relishing the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine, and his hands caressing my back and bottom. It hadn’t been a very long separation this time, especially not compared to what we were facing, but I needed him terribly. The talk with Luke, and the restless nights fretting about what might happen were forgotten as I remembered precisely why I was getting into this.

“How am I going to last without these?”

“My boobs will be available for Facetime, 24/7, Oddie dear.”

He suckled on me gently, pulled a nipple into his mouth and worked his tongue over all the little ridges and bumps. I moaned; he smiled.

“You should write an _Odyssey_ for the Twenty-first century, love. Imagine the iMessages and emails between them! ‘ _Sorry haven’t been in touch, Pen. Check out my Instagram – these lotus plants are TO DIE FOR…’”_

“I will bear it in mind. Do you want a share of the royalties, genius?”

“Nah,” he smiled as he kissed his way back up to my face, “you can have them. I’ll just have you.” He took me then, in one swift movement that made me gasp and cling onto him as my body surrendered to it all. Pleasure and love, a sort of happy desperation, pain at the knowledge this was only a short interval of happiness, but above all, an overwhelming joy at his very existence.

We lay in the dark that night, arms around each other, both awake but not speaking, for a long time. I had assumed Tom would fall asleep quickly, but it seemed he was too tired. Or something else. His dark voice broke the silence.

“These trips, this ‘odyssey’ of mine, you know that this is my life. My normal existence. I am away more than I am at home, for quite a lot of the year sometimes. And-“

I reached up and pressed two fingers on his lips. “Yes, I know, Thomas.”

“But Sarah, I know it’s been hard for you. And all the stuff we talked about with Luke, and me going away now, not coming back until Christmas… I just want you to know that-“

My insides turned to ice, instantly. “Don’t.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t say it, Tom.”

I could feel the tension in his muscles. He was holding himself very taut. “But I must, my darling.” He was breathing shallowly, and it occurred to me he might be crying in the dark. I touched his cheek and it was wet. “I know what I am asking you to go through. Your Mum, your friends, but most of all, you. I can’t tell you what it means to me that you are willing to risk-“

“Shhhhh.” I kissed him softly. “I won’t lie to you, my love, it’s been hard, and I am sure it will get worse. But I don’t have any choice, you see.”

“But you do, Sarah. You could just tell me to go-“

“ _Too late, too late, she cried…_ ” I snuggled a bit tighter against his side and kissed him again. “I can’t, Tom, even if I wanted to, because I am too in love.”

A shuddering sob came from somewhere just above my head, and I felt two strong arms tighten their hold on me. “Me too,” he whispered, “I love you too.”

*****

I poured myself a coffee and settled down at the old scruffy table. I sat facing the kitchen window – not that you can see much from where I was, just the sky, mainly – and waited. It was raining of course, but not much, just enough to make it unpleasant. I liked sitting there; in front of me was the ‘breakfast bar’ Gran had fitted to divide the room into cooking and eating areas. It was topped with an open shelving unit, which was raised up on stilts to allow the light through and I enjoyed the low December sunshine that was flooding in. My chair was far away enough not to see any mess in the sink or on the worktops, so I could pretend I was a domestic goddess…

Instead, I was like some Disney princess in a tower

_I can hear you laughing, you know… I don’t mean looks-wise, obvs_

waiting for her prince to come and rescue her. I wasn’t trapped, or asleep, of course, but I was in a sort of limbo. Our relationship had become these calls, texts and emails. They were precious and lovely, but they were no substitute for breathing the same air.

_For touching skin_

The familiar jingle erupted and the screen told me ‘SMA calling…’

He looked brown but there was pallor beneath the tan; he was tired, but then it was bedtime in Hawaii.

“Hey, Penny. How’s the old Smoke?”

“Cold, damp. Don’t tell me, it’s hot and lovely there, I bet.”

He smiled ruefully. “It could be improved.”

“Oh stop it. I saw the footage – you’re having a great time, Odds. And eating too much dessert, as usual.”

I saw him pat his impossibly flat stomach. My heart lurched: what I wouldn’t have given to be snuggled up beside him on that bed, my hand on that t-shirt, my lips…

_Yeah. Well_

“OK, so,” he said in that commanding tone that told me the subject was being changed, “where were we? Chapter eight?”

I nodded, opening my battered paperback where the red leather Jorvik bookmark lay. I closed my eyes as he began to read, and allowed that beautiful, mellifluous sound to wash over me. And tried very hard to ignore the effect it was having on my nether regions.

“ _We stopped under the willows by Kempton Park, and lunched…”_


	6. Steak and Onions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes and goes, as does Tom. And he gets to meet the indomitable Aunty Barbara...

**_Stewing steak_ **

**_A large onion_ **

**_Flour_ **

**_Beef stock, a little brandy for deglazing_ **

**_Herbs, seasoning_ **

**_Frozen ready-made puff pastry_ **

**_******_ **

I made him a pie.

_Sue me_

It was what Mum always used to do, when Dad came back from a trip away. It felt like a proper welcome home to me, I suppose: the right thing to do after the two very long separations we had endured while they shot the monkey movie.

And I had some ground to make up.

_Christmas a car crash, you ask? Nope. Just life getting in the way of life, you know, the way it does._

The winter months had been hard. I like cold, bright, crisp days, but there had been precious few of those in December. Despite the dismal and damp weather, I would walk around the Heath as usual, with the exception of one day a week, usually a Wednesday, when I would head across it, going directly to Tom’s house. At first I would sit in his reading chair, or just walk around, caressing the spines of his books, looking in his wardrobe at his suits and shoes.

_I stopped that fairly quickly – it felt a bit creepy_

After a couple of weeks I just went over there, read or worked for a bit, and spent the night every now and then, and somehow it was even nicer when I talked to him from _his_ living room or kitchen. It made the time pass a little quicker, for me, at least. This will sound awful, but it’s true: it gave me a certainly false, but comforting, sense of ownership and security. I slept in his bed and moved through his things. I belonged with him. Tom knew, of course, and he seemed to understand my ulterior motives; in fact he had asked me to pop in and check on it. He told Marjie (the lady who keeps his house) I was a friend keeping an eye, which, of course, she did not believe for a second. She made that abundantly clear with the naked eye full body scan she gave me the day I met her, followed by, thank goodness, a wink and a smile.

And actually, Christmas was bloody fantastic, thanks for asking.

He breezed in from exotic climes and swept me away for a traditional English holiday: I was invited to meet THE FAMILY.

_Holy shit II._

_Scary, but thrilling._

The gathering was at his mother’s house in Oxfordshire, and everyone was very kind and welcoming to me, as you might expect from such civilised people. I talked to Diana a lot over the two days we were there: my parents were devotees of Aldeburgh and the Festival. We had holidays over there in a cottage in town, when Kev and I were little, and as we got older I was taken to a few concerts in the various venues there or thereabouts. I had even been with Mum to visit the Red House last spring, little knowing that my future bf’s mother grew up there.

_Isn’t weird how things go like that? Our two lives, lived apart but with these odd convergences_

I could tell Diana was being a little cautious with me at first, but as the days passed, she began to let her guard down more. I just tried to be myself, and I don’t blame her; it must be hard having a child in the public eye. When we left, she squeezed me tight. We set off the day after Boxing Day and headed east to complete the meet and greet: MY FAMILY. Mum was spending the holiday in Felixstowe with Barbara. It made sense: they are both widowed, with adult children dotted around the country (and in Barbara’s case, the planet), and they had a good time together. The two cousins have always been close despite the difference in age, and I know Barbie loves taking care of Mum. My brother Kev and his partner Trish were joining us for dinner

_Might as well get all the intros done at one go_

 and on the way I filled SMA in on the family insanity, I mean, _dynamic_.

“OK, so, you will see Kev is a bit stand-offish, but Trish is really friendly.”

“ _Riiight…”_

“Kev isn’t all bad, and he does care about Mum, but he just can’t handle it when she’s unwell. It’s not his fault, but he could be more there for her, for practical things, I suppose…” I looked out of the window. We were on the delightful A14 road, the raised section where it passes the town of Godmanchester. I turned my head to see the _Wood Green Animal Shelter_ wind turbine poking up through the sheet of rain. “We got our last two dogs from the place just over there…” I felt that familiar squeeze of the heart.

_Why do we do it to ourselves? Dad always said that the pain you suffer when they die is the price you pay for loving them._

“Do you think he’ll be OK about keeping things quiet?”

Tom’s voice brought me back to the present. “Oh yes, I think so…he won’t want to do anything to hurt Mum. He can be an arse, but he has a soul, and he loves her. And me too.”

_although he’s bloody good at hiding that_

“Oh good.” Tom’s eyes were fixed on the road. It was wet, and the traffic was heavy.

_when isn’t it, on that road?_

I looked at his hands, which were gripping the wheel tightly, and pondered. Was he as nervous about this as I had been about meeting his lot? Perhaps.

“Mum will love you, no worries there. She already does.” I saw his eyebrow rise. “I may have loaned her a few DVDs.”

“ _Sarah_ …”

I pouted at him. “She asked! Anyway, I love you: she loves you. She’s my Mum. And I did not ask her to watch you and Rachel on The Deep Blue Sea.” He chuckled. “The one you will need to impress is Barbie. She’s a pretty tough nut to crack.” I reached over and put my hand on his thigh. Perhaps a bit on the high side.

_of course I did. You would, given half a chance, right?_

“She is fiercely protective of Mum – more than me, really. She’s seventeen years older, but because my Grandma on that side died young, Barbara and Great Aunt Maud more or less brought Mum up.” I smiled. Barbara was more like a Grannie to me, really. “And she’s a real mother hen type. She’ll tut at your weight, I warn you. It’s her life’s mission to fatten skinny people up.” He chuckled. “And if she’s made one of her chocolate cakes, then _you. are. DOOMED_ , Oddie. She makes Calypso look like a pussycat…”

It would have been nice if we could have stopped off at a cosy pub for lunch, you know, _like normal people,_ but we had been sent off with a flask of homemade soup

_knew it_

 and some crusty rolls by Diana. I knew a nice place to park up, at Lackford Lakes, which wasn’t far off our route. We had to eat sitting in the car, but the outlook was pleasant despite the rain hammering down.

_The soup was AMAZING_

_Natch_

“Your Mum, do you think she will be OK? When we go public, I mean?” His face was serious. He had finished his cup of soup, and his gaze was fixed on the lake – the place is a collection of disused gravel workings, in fact - in front of us. The surface was a muddle of ripples where the raindrops were falling. I mused briefly - might it flood, if this keeps up?

“I think she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. For now, she’s concentrating on meeting my boyfriend for the first time. She’s pretty good at compartmentalising, when she’s well, anyway.”

He leaned over and kissed me. Ours was the only car in the car park, so I risked allowing the kiss to deepen a bit. Tom pushed his seat back to the max and I slid over towards him. He pulled me onto his lap as much as was possible in the space between that chest of his and the steering wheel. His kisses don’t get old. Must be all that speech training at RADA or something, but his lips play me like a mf violin, I tell you. It was cosy, warm and sweet. He tasted of pumpkin and butter, I played with his curls. It felt like a flashback to my teens: snogging a boy in his car. I half-expected my Dad to tap on the window at any minute. After a few minutes we had to stop,

_Before things got out of hand_

_Or into hand_

_Or into…yeah, you get the picture_

get back on the road, head for the coast and the showdown.

The Jag hadn’t quite stopped rolling before Barbara was there, at the front gate, arms akimbo. I got out and walked over to her. She’s short, shorter than my Mum, and round

_‘As wide as she is high’, Dad used to say_

and looks a lot like Imelda Staunton (but she is definitely _NOT_ like Dolores Umbridge). She has the same apple-cheeked charm about her.

_Most of the time. If you behave_

I was hugged in a rather perfunctory manner and then firmly pushed aside as she stepped towards Tom, who had come around from the driver’s side to join us. I felt a painful jab in my bicep. LOLs

_Little Old Ladies_

are not at all _weak_ , let me tell you.

“Sarah, _introduce_ us.”

I grinned. “Barbie, this is Tom Hiddleston. Tom, this is Mrs Connors, also known as my venerable Aunty Barbara.” He went to take her hand, but she was having none of that. Stretching up to her full height of about five feet nothing, she grabbed his lapels and pulled him down for a kiss on the cheek. Tom coloured up, but laughed and returned the embrace. Barbara released him and stepped back, hands on his arms, for a better look.

“Even more handsome in person,” she murmured, then she turned to me. “Come on, chop-chop! It’ll be raining again any minute! You get the bags, Thomas!” I rolled my eyes but complied. “Your Mum’s got the kettle on, love.”

Mum looked great. She was glowing with health, for once; no doubt she’d been force-fed turkey, mince pies and chocolate for a week. I called Tom through to the kitchen and they shook hands, then he kissed her knuckles, which made her giggle. His smile had the same effect on her as it had on Barbara

_And me_

_And many, MANY others_

and I knew that, in the end, everything was going to be ok. Barbie bustled in, Tom was instructed to go and put our bags in the hall cupboard (as we would be sleeping on the blow-up bed in the lounge), I was told to carry the tray through and in short order we were all gathered around the coffee table to drink tea and eat cake.

“Tell us about your family, Thomas.”

I leaned back in my chair to watch proceedings. The three of them were lined up in a row on the cream leather sofa opposite. Mum on the left, pouring the teas; Barbara on the right, leaning forward to plate a slice of her wickedly delicious chocolate cake for my man

_He’s a goner, I thought. Once that hits his taste buds_

and between them, SMA. He was smiling in that _HELP MEEEE_ way he does, his cheeks pink and hands by his knees, moving on his thighs, up and down. Mum was smirking to herself, and I could see Barbara was ready to begin the interrogation. She handed Tom the plate and fixed him with a stern look.

“Eheheh, oh, er, right, well, my Dad’s Scottish, from near Glasgow, my Mum grew up in Aldeburgh…”

“Oh I knew that! I think I met your Mum, Tom.” Mum had butted in, surprising me.

“ _What_?”

“Yes, dear. I realised the other day. At some do in Aldeburgh your Dad and I went to a few years back, for _Friends of the Festival_.” She turned back to Tom. “Your grandfather ran it, helped start it with Britten and Pears, isn’t that right?” Tom nodded. He had taken a bite of the cake, urged on by Barbara and he had that dreamy look I’d seen before, on the faces of previous victims. “She’s a lovely lady,” Mum concluded.

“Brothers or sisters?”

_Why do people need to know these things? Idle curiosity? Mothers and aunts always want DETAILS, don’t they?_

“Two sisters, one older, one younger.”

Aunty B nodded sagely. “Ah, middle child…” I tried to catch her eye, but she was on a roll. “So, what are your intentions, Thomas?”

I spat out my tea. Well, nearly. I had to put my cup and saucer down sharpish, anyway, before I spilt any on the sheepskin rug.

“Barbara!” Mum was gently chiding, but I could see she was trying not to laugh too.

Tom was a trooper. He straightened up in his seat, swallowed the mouthful of cocoa-flavoured manna he had been chewing and cleared his throat. “Entirely honourable, Mrs Connors, I assure you.” He turned and looked at Mum, who was smiling more broadly than I had seen her since Dad died. “I love your daughter very much, Mrs Blake.”

I started to cry. I tell you, I’d never seen that woman speechless before, but Barbie looked stunned.

_Whacked-the-face-with-a-fish stunned_

Mum was teary-eyed too. She kissed his cheek and said quietly, “Call me Paula, love.”

Her cousin coughed, and I could see she was moved too.

_That bloke, I swear…_

“Sarah told me you’re off to Australia next week, dear.”

“Yes, via the States. On the way to continue filming, I’m doing some publicity for a spy drama I’ve done that’s coming on the BBC.”

“Oh yes,” Barbara enthused, “I’ve seen the clips on the telly. That lovely Hugh Laurie’s in it, isn’t he? I read something in the Radio Times…”

“You’ll love it, Barbie. But don’t forget, you can’t tell anyone about me and Tom.”

A basilisk stare came my way. “I _know_ , Sarah.” I shrank a bit, glanced at Mum, who shrugged. I might be a grown woman, but I can still feel about ten when I get told off. “So, you two love birds, when are we going to talk about all this… _business_ , then?”

“We’d better leave the details for when Kev and Trish get here, I think. Saves going through it all twice.” Mum’s eyes were cast down and I felt my stomach tightening. We needed to talk through the contingency plans we had and that meant laying out the possibilities. I had begun to do that gently with her already, and I could see she was uncomfortable.

“Good idea,” Barbara’s cheerful voice lifted the mood, “Now, Thomas, tell me: what do you think of my baking? And how do you feel about coming to my Book Club some time? I think the ladies would love to have you do a reading for us…We’re tackling _High-Rise_ next.”

_How he didn’t choke…_

*****

Confounding my worries, my brother was more than reasonable. He grasped the need for discretion immediately

_As I said, he loves Mum, and would never hurt her deliberately_

and was actually very helpful when I raised the matter of a leak possibly ‘outing’ us before we were ready.

“We’ve been thinking about that, Sarah. Trish’s Mum has a share in a caravan in Dorset. I thought we could probably take Mum there in an emergency.”

I don’t mind admitting I was a bit shocked. I looked at Trish. Her expression told me not to comment, so I didn’t. I like her. How she ended up with… but then, love is blind. Must be.

_Thank god_

“Brilliant idea, Kev! Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Tom and I explained the broad sweep of Luke’s master plan for ‘the big reveal’. It was greeted with enthusiasm, although Barbara wanted more details. I had left my computer at home deliberately, but I promised to send her what she needed when I got back to London.

“I’m rather looking forward to it now,” Mum said. “I think it will be rather fun.”

I locked eyes with SMA. He looked a little concerned, but I tried to reassure him with a smile. I knew what she meant, and it wasn’t a sign she hadn’t understood. Not at all.

The evening broke up with Kev slapping my man on the back and saying, “Welcome to the family, mate.” I snuck a glance at Mum. She was glowing.

_To think I’d feared that being with Tom might cause more trouble between me and Kev, or worse. What do I know about anything?_

*****

_Rock – me – hard place._

_Devil – me - DBS_

_Fuck_

I expect Luke was relieved that we never got to test precisely how watertight the crew of _SI_ was, thanks to my boss. Well, it wasn’t her fault: as Tennyson put it, ‘someone had blundered’. With just a few days left before shooting began on a major new costume drama, the script was - how did she put it? – Oh yes, ‘ _Utter SHITE’_.

I was all ready to go to Australia. Three weeks of sunshine… I had cleared my virtual desk: I was well ahead of the curve in my regular, routine work

_It’s not all glamorous… Casualty and Holby, mainly, a sprinkling of Doctors_

_Yeah, I know. Low-rent medical drama? I’m your gal_

and Janine had OK’d me going away (on the condition I took my MacBook and was contactable for emergencies). I’d packed my bags

_Hell, that was a marathon! I cannot tell you how many times I took some stuff out then put it back, only to change my mind later…_

and I was all set. I went up to see Mum two days before I was due to leave, gave her Luke’s contact details in case, and all was well.  SMA and I had one of our regular FT/reading sessions, finalised arrangements for my arrival, I closed the call and my mobile began to ring.

_That in itself is pretty rare these days_

“Sarah! Thank god. Have you left yet?”

Overwhelming dread… A question like that from a work superior is never the herald of good news.

“No, Janine. My flight is tomorrow…why?” Not that I wanted to know the answer, but you have to ask, don’t you?

“We need you to do an rescue job on the _Two Cities_ script. It’s a total mess and if we don’t fix it pronto they’re saying the whole bloody production could be fucked.”

So that was that. I knew she wouldn’t be asking unless she had to, and tbh, I was flattered, because it meant she trusted me. And she needed to trust me, because, basically, I had to do a total rewrite in four weeks for an entire six-episode series. The first sections had to be turned round in less than a week, because that’s when shooting was due to start. So, not only was it a huge task (I had Marianne onside to help, too), but it proved that they valued my work more than I realised, and it did lead on to bigger things… but more of that later.

In the meantime, I had to tell Tom I couldn’t go to see him.

“ _What_?!” I waited for him to calm down. “Can’t you do it from here? You work at home all the time, what’s the fucking difference?!”

“This isn’t my normal kind of work, Tom. I’ll need to liaise with the writers, the director, work closely with Marianne.” I paused. His eyes were closed, but I could see from his face he was upset. So was I. “I’ll probably have to go to the set sometimes too. They’re filming In Belfast, London, Stamford…”

I let the information sink in, and after a while he became more thoughtful. The irony of the situation did not escape either of us. After his job driving a geographical wedge between us, all of a sudden the boot was on the other foot.

“It’s karma, I suppose. Now I know how you feel, Sarah.” A wistful smile. “Maybe you can reschedule? For later in the shoot? Come to Vietnam instead?”

“Maybe…” I had mixed feelings. I was excited about the job I was taking on – it was, in some ways, my ‘big break’, and I realised later that I was also relieved that the slightly risky trip was shelved. But I missed him horribly, and knowing that this sort of separation was going to be par for the course in our relationship was no comfort at all.

To be fair, that was the first time my career had ever mucked up something so big. Previously it had just been the odd mad weekend panic or whatever. Of course Tom understood. Nobody knows better than him the sacrifices that have to be made to build a career in the business, and the next time we spoke he apologised for being short with me at first. I knew he felt bad because a vanload of flowers had arrived that morning.

My feet barely touched the ground for weeks. I worked twelve-hour or more days; I travelled to the set to do last-minute rewrites as they were shooting. One time, about two weeks in, I had a stand-up row with one of the original writers that left me tearful for days. I tried to hide it from Tom, but as I might have mentioned, I am not good at hiding my emotions.

“What did she say to you, Penny?”

I smiled. I’d never had a pet name before. Then I remembered the snarled comment: _“You’re loving this, aren’t you, you opportunistic little cunt? Just waiting to jump in and make your name…”_

I’d wanted to tell her what this had cost me, but I would have been wasting my time. She wasn’t in a state to me reasoned with, so I just allowed her to scream at me down the phone for a bit until she ran out of expletives

_For a writer, she had a very small vocabulary_

and then called Janine to tell her what had transpired.

“You don’t need to know, Tom. I’m just feeling a bit shaky, that’s all. I’m not great with confrontation.”

His beautiful face softened, and I saw him reach out and touch the screen. “I wish I could hold you, my lovely girl.”

“Soon, Oddie. Soon.”

*****

So now, here he was, principal photography completed, wrap party over,

_“Don’t ask” was all I got. His expression said it all_

back at my beaten-up old kitchen table, shovelling my steak and onion pie into his face. What a fabulous sight. The first mouthful had earned me an eyefuck of (Greek heroic) epic proportions.

“This is…Mmmm, so very goooood, my clever darling…mmmmm.”

He’d been back in London for about twenty-four hours. I had waited at his place. Knowing our secret would soon be no longer that, for better or worse, I’d decamped there at about the same time he took off from the fiftieth state. I opened windows, then closed them again while I went to do some shopping, loading his fridge with all his necessities

_Including all that stuff he puts in those green smoothies. I never touch them_

and settled down to wait. I monitored his progress as he got closer and closer to me, and I was getting ready for bed when he landed.

_Stop it_

Darling Faisal picked him up and delivered him home, pale and tired but happy. So tired, in fact, that he was more or less monosyllabic.

“Hey.”

I met him on the doorstep. Waving over his shoulder to Faisal, I wrapped my arms around Tom and just held him, feeling his weight lean into me. I can’t tell you how good that felt: his breath on my neck; the warmth of his body permeating my robe and soothing my skin; the solid reality of him _there_ , in the same space, at last.

“Oh Penny.” A deep sigh. “Are you real?”

I squeezed him a little tighter and turned my head to kiss his neck. “I’m real. It’s real. You’re home, my Oddie, my lovely man.”

We went right to bed. He was too shattered for anything but sleep, so I just held him. It was rather early for me, so I simply lay there, watching him slumber until I, too, fell off the cliff.

The next morning he was remarkably lively for someone who’d flown halfway around the planet the day before. Something hot and hard was pressing against my backside when I woke up.

“Oh, _hello_ … can I help you with that, darling?”

“Ehehehe. That would be very decent of you, Pen.”

“Oh, I assure you, _Oddie_ , I have no intention of being _decent_ at all…” I rolled over, only to be pushed onto my back immediately. He was as strong and muscular as ever – more so, I think - but always so very gentle, if on this occasion, quite insistent. He knew what he wanted and I was certainly not going to complain.

“In that case, let’s not waste any more time.” Hot, powerful kisses were pressed into my skin, from my neck to my navel. I arched my back to meet his mouth and he moaned my name, growled it, almost. It had been too long, much, _much_ too long. Every nerve in me was alive with the reality of him, of his beauty and strength. I looked down his back as he retreated towards the bottom of the bed, and admired the shape of his arse as it rose and fell with his movements.

Then I stopped thinking.

_For quite a while._

I may have made some sounds not unlike the ones he was making now, around a mouthful of my steak pie.

“Aren’t you eating yours, Sarah?” I lifted my chin off my hand

_Yes, alright, I admit it, I’d been gazing at him. He does that to me. I turn to mush sometimes, even now. It’s the freckles: I think they spell out an incantation or something_

and picked up my cutlery. It was pretty good, I must say. And the chips were _deeeeliiiish._

“So, my love, are we all set for Wales? Your Mum, Barbara?”

I laughed at his slightly fixed grin. “She still scares you? Dear, sweet, harmless old Barbie?”

I got one of those admonishing eyebrow-raises. “Like you’re any different, Scaredy-Cat. I saw her fell you with a word.”

I grinned. “Yeah, well…I’m just glad she’s on _our_ team. Yes, I think we’re ready.” I felt my stomach tightening and I stopped eating. I’d lost interest all of a sudden. Tom noticed and put his own knife and fork down. He reached for my hand.

“Sarah.” His voice was soft and rich, like the chocolate mousse I had made him for dessert. I let my eyes roam over his face. “It will be alright. Luke will look after you. And your Mum. And we’ll be together, all of us.”

“I know.” I managed a smile. He stroked my cheek and leaned over and brushed my lips with his.

_God, how I loved him!_ Which is just as well, because I was about to let my life change forever, purely because I did.


	7. Lamb and Leeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to rural Wales, some excitement and the big reveal...

**_Lamb_ **

**_Pearl barley_ **

**_Onions, swede and leeks_ **

**_Herbs and seasonings_ **

**_*********_ **

The **_cawl_** was delicious, but I confess, I had no real appetite. Barbie had exceeded herself this time. I knew from a lifetime of self-catering hols in her company that she liked to cook the local cuisine for at least some meals, and this tasty traditional stew of lamb and leeks was singularly appropriate. Tom tucked in,

_Honestly, you’ll know he’s dead when he doesn’t eat well – skinny roles excepted. Even then – he just runs more, usually. Barbara loaded his plate – he’s ‘skeletal’ on the Aunty B Scale of body measurement_

but not me. Mum, too, barely picked at her helping. Of course, we both drank a tad too much wine, especially given how little food was in our stomachs, but that did help a little. We ate early so that everything was cleared away before eight o’clock.

There had been a brief trail for the programme, just before the _Six O’Clock News_. I might have been paranoid about that except that I knew they had been trailing these monthly shows in that slot every time. And there had been some tweeting, from those involved, about the show and the interview ahead of time, as is normal these days. Including one from Tom, which Luke and others

_(hundreds, thousands of others)_

had re-tweeted.

I looked around the room. Barbara was on one sofa, with chocolates on her knee (“This is a _holiday_ , dear. I always bring a box of Milk Tray with me on holiday.”), Mum perched tensely on the armchair alongside her, still clutching her half-finished glass of wine from dinner. She looked dazed, and her eyes were glassy. I suspected she might have taken an extra tablet. I wasn’t sure that was a good idea.  My stomach clenched when I saw how she was. As for me, well, I had no need of (additional) chemical assistance, because wrapped around me were the long, strong arms of my man. I felt safe in there, in his embrace: brave, and fearless and full of hope. I knew it would be tough for a while, and I was _über_ nervous about it, but mainly because of the threshold we were crossing, I suppose. It felt momentous, it felt… _important_ , life changing, but in a good way.

_A necessary way._

_God, I’m so mature. Aren’t I doing well? Are you proud?_

No really, I had genuinely made my peace with it. It was a big moment, but an exciting one. The clock dragged around to the top of the hour and the _Artsmonth_ titles began. Tom’s hand slid over mine and our fingers interlaced. I felt his lips press into my temple and I snuggled more firmly against his chest. Damien’s handsome face appeared and he listed the items coming up. They showed a brief clip of Tom laughing and answering a question about nudity

_Honestly, people are OBSESSED with his…_

_She smiles smugly…_

and my heart rate increased tenfold. I kept my eyes on the TV, but I didn’t really take much in. I was watching Mum covertly, using my peripheral vision. I allowed all the worries I had harboured about her in this new, alien environment I was dragging her into to take me over for a few minutes. Time seemed to lose its shape and meaning, and once more I felt as if I was floating, not in my body at all. A deep, warm voice by my ear brought me back.

“Here we go.”

The interview was about fifteen minutes of really interesting stuff, interspersed with the odd clip or still of Tom in a few of the many and various roles that have made up his career to date. Damien asked interesting, _actorly_ questions and SMA responded with even more interesting answers than normal.

_And he answers even the dullest, most predictable and even, tbh, irritating questions politely and with great care, accompanied by the occasional eyefuck or grin of doom – insufferable, I know_

I smiled, knowing how much editing they had to do. He had gone on and on and on… Then THE MOMENT came. It was like watching a movie… I could write that script:

_Two tall, Old Etonian actors step out onto the terrace behind the farmhouse, stand side by side and look at the large, open, pleasant, if rather dull, garden. One, marginally shorter, with red hair, is dressed in a smart shirt and sweater, with corduroy trousers. The other, a tad taller and fair, is wearing a leather jacket and jeans. They are both very good-looking. They take in the view of the mountains beyond the sunken wall. A cameraman is shadowing them, looking like some strange mechanical dinosaur as he films with his steady-cam._

_“This is a beautiful spot. Is it yours, Tom? Have you become a country gentleman?”_

_“I wish… No, Damien, we’re just renting it for a couple of weeks. We still live in London.”_

_“We?” He turns his head to look at his companion quizzically. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Thomas?”_

_Tom looks down a little awkwardly, and grins. “Sarah and I, I mean.”_

_Damien smiles and nods. “I fear you have just broken a million hearts, Tom.”_

_“As long as I haven’t broken hers…” A bashful smile, an embarrassed chuckle; a distinct pinking-up of the cheeks… God he’s so lovely I am going to…_

_“Have you been together long?”_

_“Since last May, so getting on for a year now.” The men step onto the lawn, begin to stroll around the garden._

_“How did you two meet?” He quickly adds, “You don’t mind me asking?”_

_“No, it’s fine. Sarah’s a screenwriter, for the BBC. We met at a dinner party she gave. That was the night my life changed.”_

 

And so, there it was: the big revelation scene. We were _out_ , in the open at last.

_But now tell me honestly…_ “the night my life changed” _I mean, he’s a romantic god and he gets carried away, but what do you think he meant by ‘changed’? I mean, what do you think are the implications of that statement? … … … I need a drink_

******

We had arrived at our retreat, just SMA and I, almost a week earlier. We had Saturday to Wednesday evening to ourselves, and it was heaven. The house, large and comfortable (bits of it go back to the 12thcentury or something) had a welcoming atmosphere, and I felt at home the minute I walked in. It had a huge kitchen

_All mod cons – I like old-fashioned, but a dishwasher is a basic human right_

with a big oak table not unlike my own, and comfy sofas and chairs in the cosy lounge. The weather was being reasonably kind for Wales – i.e. we had only been rained on, briefly, three times thus far, and the remoteness of the spot meant the two of us could walk in the hills without fear of interruption or anything less welcome. Our rural idyll was over when, the night before the interview was to be filmed, Luke arrived, brimming with excitement and ready to monitor and control ‘the message’.

_Fuck. I will never get used to this_

_Luke could organise the invasion of a small country, I swear. He has a mind like a steel trap. We all had briefing packs, itineraries… I thought I was pretty organised until I met him._

Now things were actually happening, I imagined massive, building-sized machines starting to work, huge wheels turning, like old Sharpie’s digging thingy, grinding into life: unstoppable, powerful, overwhelming. But I was not afraid. This change would mark the beginning – the real _, formal_ beginning - of our life together, and now it was imminent, I welcomed it. It’s strange; I don’t know if everyone – all women, at least – go through this, but I have talked to Marianne and Cassie about it and they feel the same. Since I don’t know how long, late adolescence perhaps, my life feels as if it has been marked by a series of watershed moments: times when I have felt ‘really grown-up’, all of a sudden. Leaving Uni; getting the job with the Beeb; moving into my first, microscopic, shared flat; inheriting the house; losing my Dad… Meeting Tom: that was a biggie; getting that call about _Two Cities.._. Now this, and for once, I was anticipating the moment, aware of its significance and really, heart-stoppingly excited about it.

_If they could see me now…_

My only real concern now was Mum, and ensuring we could avoid anything that might be too much for her delicate emotional state. Luke was fairly confident everything would be OK, and I trusted his judgement. Nevertheless, it still felt a little bit like stepping off a cliff.

_But I would be fine. I had a large, warm, sexy hand to hold_

_Sorry, but his hands still… yeah, you guys know what I mean, right?_

The crew from _Artsmonth_ arrived around lunchtime the next day, the behind-the-camera drudges squashed into a grey Merc van thing with all the gear, and the May host with his producer in a black saloon: it was the gorgeous Damien - _Henry VIII -_ Lewis. Each edition of the new BBC Four strand of monthly ‘what’s on in the Arts’ programmes was designed to have its own character, thanks to a different celebrity both editing and presenting; actors, artists, writers and musicians – even an architect - were all scheduled to do shows in the first year. This interview had been provisionally arranged a while before, and the May show had a distinct theatrical bias thanks to Damien. The genius of Luke was in recognising that this would be ideal for our subtle _‘oh, btw, this is my gf: it’s serious’_ moment. The topical nature of the show, all filmed within in a week or so of the broadcast on the first Friday of the month meant that Tom could do the interview and it would be shown the next night.

I know that SMA was flattered that Damien had chosen him to be the subject of the in-depth one-on-one segment, and of course, the extra publicity that his casual mention of me would bring wouldn’t hurt the show’s profile one little bit. I was delighted about it, because I already knew him, slightly. I had done a teeny bit of work on _Wolf Hall,_ some on-set tweaking, and somehow, miraculously, he remembered me.

“Sarah, how marvellous! What _are_ you doing with this berk?” He inclined his head towards a grinning SMA. “What are you up to these days?”

We chatted happily for several minutes. I quizzed Damien about working in US TV (I wanted details, how the writers interact with the directors and cast during filming, that kind of stuff).

_Well, you never know_

He was just how I recalled from _WH –_ charming, funny, teasing and fiercely bright. We had a few mutual friends, and I might have suggested that he and Helen might like to join us for a FND in the future. Tom and Luke had been making the coffee and we were still talking, about food and wine by that stage, when I felt an arm slide around my waist and pull me, rather proprietorially I thought, against a firm torso.

“You two already know each other? Good!” Trust Luke to be pragmatic. I gave SMA a bit of a look, since he was acting a little oddly

_Jeez, was he JEALOUS? I had to stifle a giggle_

And then we assembled for the council of war. We were all set: ready to do the deed. Luke, Tom, Damien and his producer had been chatting about this ahead of time, of course, and we all sat at the table with coffee and cake

_I had baked a bit during the week – the Aga was irresistible and it was something to do when it rained_

_Something ELSE to do, I mean_

_Ahem_

and we had a very serious and detailed briefing before a second of video was recorded. I phased out a couple of times during it. I was exhausted.

*****

I had lain still and quiet the night before, with no idea what time it was. Late, or early, whatever. It was dark, I knew that much, but I was fully awake. I rarely sleep well in a strange bed… in an _unfamiliar bed,_ I mean. Not at first, anyway, but this was such a stressful time, I hadn’t expected to rest at all, and I was right about that. SMA wasn’t asleep either. I could feel it. He moved every now and then, carefully so as not to disturb me. After the third or fourth gentle shifting of position, I spoke up.

“It’s OK, Tom. I’m not asleep.”

A great sigh gushed out of him. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry-“

“No, it wasn’t you. I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”

He turned towards me and stroked my arm. “I noticed, darling.” I could see his face, or at least the suggestion of it, shadows and shapes and the glitter of his eyes in the darkened room. The moon was making patterns on the wall behind him, the flickering shadows of the trees outside the window a puppet-show that matched the quivering in my guts. I craned my neck to kiss his lips, needing his warmth and love. I felt his body turn against mine and in the gentlest, most controlled way, he pulled me on top of him. Those hands were holding my face.

“How did this happen?”

I knew exactly what he meant, but I had to ask anyway, cause I never let a chance for validation pass me by, particularly in bed. “What do you mean, ‘ _this’_ …?” He pulled me into a deep, intense, incredible kiss.

“That, baby. I meant that.”

_Oh yes… I knew…_

“I don’t know, Tom. I truly don’t. If you’d told me… But, here I am, so deeply in love with you I don’t recognize myself sometimes. Never been happier, never been more terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of this not being real.”

“I know. I just asked you how it happened… But it did, didn't it? It is happening… It _IS_ real.” He kissed me again, slowly, lingeringly, making me want it to last for the rest of our lives. “I love you, Sarah. I am in love with you. I want you. I need you. I dream of you and I think of you, constantly. Even when I’m supposed to be thinking about other things. I laugh with you and I know, eventually, I will cry with you. I eat with you, I talk with you, I sleep with you. I want to live my life with you.”

Before I started crying my eyes out, I did the only sensible thing possible, I kissed him as if my life depended on it. Because it did.

*****

I was to keep out of the way, staying on the terrace or in the garden while they filmed the talking heads part, sitting opposite each other in the chintzy living room.  When that was done I would get the nod from Luke, go indoors and hide in the kitchen. The plan was to do a walking/talking segment outside, talk about the house and the topic of why Tom was there, at this particular place, would come up. All casual, like…

I remember looking across the table at Luke, who was going over the last few points with Damien and Hugh, the producer. He looked so calm, _Christ,_ he even had a half-smile on his lips, and I wanted to scream. But then SMA _,_ the kindest, funniest, _the midnight poet,_ put his hand on my leg and whispered in my ear.

“Pen, don’t let me go on Tumblr and discover your Damien Lewis fangirl blog.”

Of course I almost spilt my coffee, and felt better immediately.

They did the recording, it all went well and two of the finest actors of their generation made it all seem natural and not all meticulously planned by the best PR guy in the biz. The TV crew repaired to their van (which turned out to be equipped with all kinds of fancy-schmancy equipment that meant they could edit the whole thing in situ) and the rest of us (Damien, Luke, Tom and the gibbering wreck formerly known as S. Blake) sat around the kitchen table again, this time with wine instead of coffee. After what felt like days but was in fact only two hours, before they set off back to London, they showed us the more-or-less finished item (some sound needed sorting or something – not my area) and it looked OK to me. Pretty great, in fact.

Anyway, with Mum and Barbie arriving, there was something different to focus on, and I was elated when I saw the old battered blue Peugeot rattling up the lane. They got out of the car, Barbie waving her hands and calling; “Children, we are here! Now tell me where is the lovely Damien Lewis?”  We all burst out laughing. Tom could not help it: “Aunty Barbara, I am so easily replaced in your affections? I thought you were coming to see _us_.” 

“Oh, but Thomas, _darling_ , I have the feeling I will be seeing a LOT of you in the future, perhaps too much, remember I have read _High-Rise_ … Now, Mr Lewis, on the other hand…”

You should have seen Tom’s face. Mum came to his rescue, giving him a tight hug, and asked him to show her the place. I love them. All of them.

After fifteen minutes, Barbara (only _slightly_ pissed off that she had missed meeting ‘Dickie Winters’) began to spread her knives and bags of shopping on the worktops, and I sat at the table in the big farmhouse kitchen, watching the fun: two Mums and Luke, two middle-aged Englishwomen and a lovely Englishman who was trying to make a sandwich for himself. I felt a bit sorry for Luke. This was his first encounter with _Hurricane Barbara_. My Mum’s cuz is bad enough at someone else’s house, but on neutral ground she is unstoppable. A veritable _steamroller_ …

“Luke, dear, there’s no need to eat snacks, I’m cooking. You’ll spoil your appetite. Paula, you can-“

Luke tried again… He’ll learn. “Please, Mrs Connors. You’ve only just got here and there’s no need to cook a full meal, we can make sandwiches, or I can go and get something from Tesco’s.”

He was fixed with a gimlet eye, and she spoke again, in that patient voice of hers, which is always a bad omen. “Thanks, love,but I told you already. I’ve brought everything with me for dinner tonight, and for something special tomorrow. I thought you young people would all be a bit worn out, what with all the fuss and the TV people and everything. And I need to stretch my legs anyway, after sitting in the car all day. It takes a little while so why don’t you lot go for a walk, or look at your phones or something? Paula can do the veg, but we don’t need any more help.” She paused, for effect. I grinned. “You three can do the washing up, of course.”

Mum smiled apologetically at Tom’s friend. Really, there is no arguing with her.

“Come on mate, let’s us three go for a walk; leave the ladies to it.”

_That’s my guy. SMA, also, Nobel Peace Prize_

The grass on the slope down, away from the grey stone house was long and wet, so I was glad I was in my walking gear. Luke, too, was properly attired, and as Tom was wearing shorts, he just got wet legs but never complained. The view was broad and handsome. Below us, nestling in the little valley was a tiny hamlet of about ten houses, a pub, a church and a part-time shop. It took us about forty-five minutes to get there, and by the time we were striding up what passed for a main street, the community store was closed, but Luke popped into the pub and got the skinny on things. Tom and I had steered clear up until then, not wanting to be spotted. Apparently it was open every morning except Sunday, and they sold newspapers.

_Yay_

*****

Tom’s phone started to buzz. So did mine. I let my eyes move over to my mother. She was staring at the TV, but she was smiling. I had to move, do _something,_ so I went to make some hot drinks. Mum followed and we had a cuddle in the kitchen.

“You OK, love?” She still seemed a bit doped, but her eyes looked clearer. I watched her pour away the remains of her wine.

“Yes, I think I am.” I reflected for a moment. “I am, Mum. I love him, and now the world knows, it’s almost a relief. D’you know what I mean?”

She nodded as she filled the kettle while I made up a tray. “I do. I’m glad I’m here. Although, you could have told me sooner that Damien Lewis was going to be doing the interview. Barbara asked me to find out if he stayed the night, and which bed he slept in.” She started to giggle, and once she started she couldn’t stop. And once she couldn’t stop, I started and soon we were both doubled over, holding onto the table, helpless with laughter. I heard footsteps and Barbara came in, shaking her head but smiling at our silliness. Of course, she took control and I went to find out if Tom would be joining me in a _digéstif._ Coffee or tea wasn’t going to be enough. He had stretched his long legs out over the rug. I cleared my throat.

“Fancy a scotch or anything?”

“I’d love one, darling.” I raised my eyes and found him looking at me with one of those intense stares, the ones that make me feel naked, almost transparent. I wanted to grab him, kiss him, fuck him RIGHT THERE. Instead, I went back to the kitchen and opened the glasses cupboard. Mum and Barbara had made the teas and coffees and passed me in the hall. As I reached for the bottle of scotch, I felt someone behind me, and two hands settled on my waist. I leaned back into him as he lifted one to move my hair and soft lips kissed my neck.

“Tom…”

“Shhhh…”

I let him turn me in his arms and I kissed his mouth. I wrapped myself around him: Tom; SMA; _TOM HIDDLESTON_. _My man_. Now the world knew it, or would soon enough. And I realised that I didn’t care. They could say what they liked, I wouldn’t read it; it wouldn’t change anything. He loved me, I loved him and that was all that really mattered. I heard him murmur my name and I kissed him again, deeper, harder. I didn’t even care at that moment that my Mum and Aunty B were just across the hall. I needed him SO MUCH, and from the way he was kissing me back and clutching at me, it seemed he needed me too.

“Sarah…”

I guided him, through the other door, into the dining room. We found a chair, I pushed him into it, straddled his lap and we continued. His hands were wandering under my clothes, and soon I was unfastening his jeans. We both glanced at the open door a few times, but I was past caring by then. What was the worst that could happen? Nonetheless, we did our best to be quiet. And nobody came to check on us… I guess we weren’t _that_ subtle, then.

All the tension of the build-up to this day was released as our bodies were joined. I watched his face: his eyes were dark, his mouth was open in a slight smile. Nothing could ever happen that couldn’t be cured by the feel of his body against mine, our cheeks brushing over one another, his hands on my legs or my boobs, his lips and tongue on mine. The knowledge that I have the same affect on him: that means more to me than anything.

I don’t know whether it was the tiredness, the stress or the relief,

_Or maybe the angle of the dining chair…_

but I was soon having to bite my own hand not to yell out, and I felt him lose rhythm as he held my hips and thrust upwards, following me over the edge. We stayed, joined and panting in the dark, for a few minutes.

“Darling.”

“I know, Odds, I know…”

Giggling like teenagers we tried to sort ourselves out.

_You know, straightened our clothing, that sort of thing. Couldn’t do much about his sex-hair or our swollen lips_

Just when we were about to go back to the sitting room, Luke called from London. SMA put him on the speaker.

 “We have been swamped with enquiries. I’ll keep an eye on things, but so far, it’s all good. A few people have worked out who you are, Sarah.” I shrugged: we knew that would happen, although I had expected it to take longer than an hour. “It doesn’t help that you are one of only two Sarahs on the BBC Drama writing staff, and the other is a sixty-year-old.”

My phone buzzed at that moment, making me jump. “It’s from Marianne.”

_< U OK?>_

_< Yep. What did you think?>_

_< I think a million women hate u right now. I do, and I luv u x>_

_< :P>_

Another message came in, this time from Kev. He and Trish had stayed at home, but with their landline set to go straight to voicemail, as were their mobiles. Kev played me the message he’d recorded later (it was so quintessentially Kev I laughed): _“I’m not taking any calls at the moment. If you’re a friend or family, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you. If you’re from the media, I have no comment, so please fuck off.”_ Kev was acting – broadly – on advice. He hadn’t wanted to hide, so Luke had suggested the voicemail tactic. His message was brief:

_< Actually he really is fucking famous! Phone’s started. Deleting all the shite every 30mins. We’re good xxx>_

Also typical of Kev. Not a man of many words, my bruv.

_It’s catching_

I think he enjoyed the deleting process – catharsis, Luke called it. I have done similar things myself in the past and it is oddly satisfying.

We collected our almost-forgotten scotches, and went to sit with Mum and Barbara for a while longer. Eventually I felt my eyes drooping. Two strong arms scooped me up.

“Ladies? I am taking Sleeping Beauty here to bed. We’ll see you all in the morning.”

Through the fog of sleep I heard Barbara harrumph. “I hope you two can keep it down a bit this time… Honestly, Paula, young love, eh?”


	8. Champagne and Christmas Cake (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months have passed, and Tom is planning a festive surprise...

**_Dried fruit (shit-loads)_ **

**_Enough butter, eggs and flour to stick the above together_ **

**_Yet more calories in the form of sugar  - just a tad - and maybe a drop of treacle_ **

**_Spices (the old fashioned kind – nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, etc)_ **

**_Booze – before, to soak the fruit; during, to ‘feed’ the cake periodically in the run-up to December 25 th; and after, to drink: marsala or madeira or something sweet is heaven with this. And/or a slice of vintage cheddar…_ **

**_*******_ **

He was up to something. I knew it. I assumed he was trying to buy me a REALLY NICE Christmas present, because yes, it was that time of year already…

 

_We did our second one together in the opposite order. It’s best to keep the olds – especially the LOLs - happy, even if it means zigzagging across southern England_

But enough of family commitments, no more FNDs in this calendar year, no more events, no more interviews. We needed time for us (i.e. I needed exclusive time, no sharing his attention, no contemplating other people’s feelings, no consideration for the ‘outside’ world).

_Yeah, I know. Call me needy. And I am. But YOU try sharing the love of your life with a universe of INTENSE individuals who are always in your face, talking about your life, directly and indirectly. It’s hard._

So I might have pouted a few times too many recently, perhaps I became a teeny bit clingy at the Evening Standard awards… Do you think zapping him with a tiny little mini tantrum/guilt trip combination could have given him a clue that I wanted EOM?

_Eyes on me_

Whatever it was, it did the trick and late December found us back in Suffolk, just us two, staying a couple of nights at his Mum’s second home/weekend cottage. It was the perfect place to be before we returned to London for NYE.

_come on! You have to know THAT one!_

I felt wonderfully relaxed there; it was so welcoming and normal. We could walk to Aldeburgh, the Red House, the good old great-grey-green-greasy North Sea and the stony beach it kept crashing down onto…

But, no, I wasn’t imagining it - he was being distinctly shifty.

_I may have mentioned his inability to lie convincingly once or twice before_

SMA had cooked supper – apparently during his time in Oz, on top of pretending to make a film, he spent some time with the Hemsworths and perfected a couple of recipes.This one was fabulous, chicken and pasta: rich without being cloying and spicy without being too hot. I gave silent thanks to the lovely Elsa. We had eaten in the kitchen and now I was clearing up and trying to ignore my MacBook, which was calling to me from one corner of the table.

Since my rescue job on the Dickens I had been given more and more writing work. Mostly in a team, and not the _most_ creative stuff (in ‘continuing dramas’ one has to stick to the pre-ordained arcs and the house style) but there had been talk of something better. And two months back, in the middle of my second stay with Loki in Asgard/Queensland, an email had arrived which made me whoop so loudly the demi-god had spilled his tea.

They wanted me to do a treatment of _Saturday_ by Ian McEwan.

_I suppose they thought all my ‘medical’ experience in Holby City Hospital and the Mill Health Centre qualified me for the job_

I did it (of course)

_after running around his little rental about twenty times, singing the Hallelujah Chorus. I might have attempted a cartwheel. That landed my arse on the floor. Immediately followed by Mr Rescuer who claimed to be disappointed when I told him I did not need his mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or the boob massage that he called ‘optimized CPR technique’_

(fortunately, I had already read the novel) and now they expected me to actually write it, with Marianne as my wing-person again. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. It made the _Two Cities_ job feel like a walk in the park. So I had to bring the damn machine with me this year, and do at least some token pages during the ‘break’. Tom would sit reading, eyefucking me from across the room while I typed, or let me put my legs across his lap (his fingers idly stroking) while I went through the notes Marianne sent me.

_I imagined her at her kitchen table or hiding in her bedroom from her daughter’s Christmas party_

But this was OUR time, and I made strenuous efforts to keep the evenings free for us to just ‘be’.

I wondered again what my Odysseus was up to: he had helped clear the table when we finished eating, but then he disappeared. I had heard the front door open and close a couple of times but so far he hadn’t returned to the kitchen. We’d agreed on Christmas cake by the fire as a dessert, so I put the last few things away, emptied the washing-up bowl, dried my hands and set off in search of Thomas, carrying a tray with my homemade cake, a knife and some plates and forks.

_Yes, I had made it. I didn’t bother taking it out of the tin Barbara’s, naturally, but we had shared some in Oxfordshire. It was rather good, though I say it myself. Good old Nigella. The decoration was rather ‘rustic’ (code for crap) but I had been ‘feeding’ it for a while, mind, so it was quite, er, tasty_

I nudged the sitting-room door open with my elbow. It was pretty dark, just the light from the log fire and some candles, along with the soft twinkling of the Christmas tree lights. I could hear music, soft piano. I looked over and yes: the unfairly talented bugger was playing the upright in the corner.

_Chopin, I think_

When our eyes met he smiled, carried on until he finished the phrase and stood up. I raised my eyebrows but he just smiled more broadly and took the tray from me, setting it on a low table. Now I was further into the room I could see he had arranged some cushions on the rug in front of the hearth. Next to the fireguard was a bottle of bubbly and two beautiful crystal flutes I had never seen before.

“ _Thomas…_?”

“Shhhh… Come and sit with me.”

I sat down where he indicated on the rug. He cut us two slices of cake and brought them when he joined me, settling behind and stretching his legs out either side of me so I was nestled between. He reached over for the bottle and opened it skilfully, pouring us a glass each. I turned my head, still regarding him suspiciously.

“What’s the occasion?”

His arm wrapped around my waist and his chin rested on my shoulder. “Can’t we share a bottle of bubbly just because we want to?”

I felt so good, so at home in that spot. In those arms, in that house, that place. But I knew there was more to this than just a bit of seasonal cheer.

“ _Thomas…”_

He suddenly looked very serious as he cleared his throat and my stomach flipped. He handed me my champagne, took my other hand and fixed me with those eyes, and _that_ look.

_You know, THE look, you’ve rebblogged it five million times. The one he was giving me without my knowledge back in Highgate that night. The night that changed both of our lives_

“Sarah, my darling, this year has been a tough one for us, but good as well, I hope?” I nodded. “I think we can agree that if you and I have lived our lives together in the last year and survived, then our love isn’t just real, it’s bloody special.” My throat began to tighten up and my eyes stung with tears.

_Stop it, Tom. Don’t stop_

He lifted my hand and kissed it. I let it continue upwards and stroked his eyebrow, his cheek and neck. I love the feel of his beard under my fingertips, and the softness of his lips. The way the skin tightens over his collarbones…

_Sorry. Drifting off there_

Things had been hard for both of us at times, I won’t pretend otherwise. After the ‘announcement’ we… managed. Nothing too serious. Luke did an incredible job, he shielded us well. Happily, Mum had not been hassled AT ALL.

_She listened to Luke. I think she has a bit of a crush_

He had persuaded her not to look at any of the gossip mags or tabloid papers, so she remained serenely ignorant. Barbara had a row with a shopkeeper near her house, telling him he “shouldn’t stock this appalling, lying… ‘cause I can tell you EXACTLY… oh, piss off…”. It was weird for me, and a bit unnerving to be approached in public when I was with Tom. The overwhelming majority of people were really friendly. But soon after ‘we’ became common knowledge, Tom had been away again, for six months. I visited him twice, but I was so busy it was impossible to keep dropping everything to fly halfway around the world. That side of his job – _and yes, yes, I knew it would be like that_ – that aspect of it was never going to be easy to bear.

The arm around me got tighter still. Lips caressed my temple, and his head leaned against mine. We sipped our champagne and looked at the fire. Logs popped and hissed. I took a morsel of cake. We breathed. He bit into his slice, made those noises he makes.

_No, not THOSE ones. The ‘yum-yum’ ones_

_Really? BEHAVE_

I felt him straightening his back a bit, then he took a quick nip at the cake again, before putting the plate to one side. “I love you very much, Sarah, you know that. I am still overwhelmed that you have been willing to put up with my life. I know you have given up so much to have this relationship with me – your privacy, your old life, even your own home.”

_Yeah, I’d moved in with him. It was just easier. We wanted to live together, and his house was more secure and private. I was renting out the whole building now. Nice little earner_

I leaned into him again. “I haven’t given up anything, love. I got you… And I _haven’t_ given up my old life, not really. Nothing worth having has been lost, nothing at all.” None of that was hyperbole. I hadn’t lost a single true friend, and as for what I had gained, well…

“Well, I hope you know what it means to me, and how much I love you, will always love you, my beautiful, clever, wonderful Penelope.”

“Not, ‘ _hot damn sexy Penelope’,_ Odds?”

I got another eyefuck for that.

He put his glass down

_We had barely drunk any. And it was VINTAGE, people. What the hell?_

and reached under the tree for something. “Will you? Will you do me the honour, my Sarah?”

It was beautiful. Not that I could see it that clearly.

“Or should I ask hot damn sexy Penny if _she_ wants to be my wife?”

_Yeah. Course I said yes._

_Might have said OMFG YES_

_And then we finished the bottle._

_Eventually_


End file.
